


Sugar and Smoke

by almaasi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Autistic Castiel, BBQ Chef Dean Winchester, Baker Castiel, Baking, Barbecue, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Fêtes & Fairs, Gluten Free Food, House Party, Kosher Food, M/M, Mutual Pining, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, Openly Gay Castiel, Rock Star Dean Winchester, Romance, Smart Castiel, Smart Dean, Teacher Castiel, deancaspinefest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23904355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi
Summary: You will need:+ One (1) pastel-sweater-wearing church-bake-sale angel+ One (1) cuss-happy BBQ lumberjack who doesn’t measure ingredientsInstructions:1. Combine ingredients: put competing tables side-by-side at the community fair.2. Lightly grease with food appreciation, flustering, and friend-opposed flirtation.3. Add your desired flavour! Have lumberjack invite angel to his housewarming party.4. Knead, allowing a mutual failure to impress to become longing.5. Prove for 1 hour. Watch as after-party conversation thrives towards an intensely passionate cook-off.6. Now add heat! Watch inhibitions melt away until prim angel is an indecent wreck, and lumberjack is divested of shame.7. Separate, then reunite and add sweet toppings for best effect.You now have a beautifully earnest relationship! Scrumptious!
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 78
Kudos: 520





	1. Sugar and Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Art kindly provided in a pinch by [purzelndesbaeumchen](https://purzelndesbaeumchen.tumblr.com/) (aka [throughfireandice](https://throughfireandice.tumblr.com/)) for the [Dean/Cas Pinefest 2020 challenge](https://deancaspinefest.tumblr.com/)! Check out the art post [HERE](https://purzelndesbaeumchen.tumblr.com/post/616680003737944064/sugar-and-smoke-you-will-need-one-1). (Fic masterpost [HERE](https://deancaspinefest.tumblr.com/post/616707076426809344/sugar-and-smoke-t-30k-author-almaasi).)
> 
> This fic was inspired by the 35-second video [‘gotta do the cooking by the book’ by ThomasIsTrash](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQwz8TYNeEY) (kind of nsfw). Also, I have [a friend](https://foolingrichmond.tumblr.com/) who went out of his way to support my very specific food needs (and general existence needs) without a second thought, and I cannot TELL you how LOVED that makes me feel, especially juxtaposed against my father’s constant resistance to doing for me, my sister, and mother what Dean does for Cas in this fic. I find it much easier to deal with Deeply Irritating Problems when they are made fictional, fluffy, and soft.
> 
> Fic beta’d by [Katie](https://crab-full-of-rocks.tumblr.com/), and my sister [Amara](https://sweetdreamspootypie.tumblr.com/), with some last-minute fixes by [Libby](https://cersei-the-truth-bombardier.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  **Warnings:** Swearing. Inexplicit metaphorical mentions of John Winchester’s past abuse and homophobia. Cas is autistic, eats gluten free food, and is openly gay but has never dated anyone. Mentions of Cas previously being homeless as a teen. Many, many mentions of delicious food.

  
  


Even so early in the afternoon, there were already thousands more people at Austin’s community street fair than Castiel had expected. He kept his head up, uttering “Pardon me, excuse me,” as he sidewinded between teenagers and clowns and drag queens and parents with their kids perched up on their shoulders. All his steps were jagged and halting, hands clasped around his one-foot-cubed cake box as he made his way to his sellers’ table.

All around, shimmering summer heat blurred the endless colour and glitter of the crowds. There were portable tables bordering the central walkway all the way to the bridge in the distance, with sellers behind each table, showing off their wares – handmade clothes, jewellery, toys, hats, and, best of all: food.

Between all the ice-cream trucks and taco stands dotted throughout the fair, Castiel found the landmark he was looking for. Above a barbecue truck painted with the name _Smokin’ Shotgun_ , particles of soot drifted black-gold against a pristine blue sky, soon whisked away by the dancing aroma of fried sugar pastry and a tickle of metallic confetti. And beside that seething black beast of a truck was his destination: a simple white table piled high with pretty pastel-coloured cakes.

With a huff of relief, Castiel made it to the blinding fabric sign that was draped over a hedgerow, which read ‘ _Sunday’s Child_ ’ in his own cursive. There was a worse version with badly-spaced letters on the backside of the same cloth, but in the constant blaze of summer light, nobody could tell.

“Coconut-ice,” Castiel announced, giving a glad smile to his church group.

“Careful with that one, mijo,” Mariela warned, as Castiel snuck behind their table and started to unbox the new cake on its surface. “Put it over there, far right. Keep it out of the wind.”

Castiel looked the way she pointed, then looked left, wondering what was upwind that a coconut-ice cake ought to be afraid of.

In the few minutes he’d been getting the cake from his car, that chunky catering truck had opened its hatch just to the left of the _Sunday’s Child_ display, and there was already smoke oozing out of its rectangular opening. A broad-shouldered shadow shifted around inside, while a red-haired young woman set up their register.

“You’re right,” Castiel said to Mariela, taking his delicate coconut-ice and placing it as far away from the smoke as he could. “The icing will end up tasting like barbecue ribs if it doesn’t sell fast.”

“Then thank God it’s your bestseller, ah?” Belén chuckled, tying her apron around her plump middle, then tossing Castiel his own apron. “Now let’s roll up our sleeves and get to it!”

The moment Castiel finished donning his protective gloves, a lightly-tanned, spiky-haired lumberjack in a plaid shirt came bounding out of the crowd and hit the front of their table. The cakes wobbled.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” the man said, again darting out of the way of a marching band, complete with spinning batons. He leaned a freckly hand on the tablecloth, then turned to Castiel’s church group, wearing a smile like he had a joke ready, only to see six sets of glaring eyes. He lurched back like the table burned him. “Wow. Okay. You’re gonna sell a lot of cakes like that, aren’t ya.”

He eased past the table, giving each of the Latina women a nervous look. Castiel made a point of glaring harder than everyone else.

“Dean, where _were_ you?” the woman yelped from the barbecue truck, leaning out of the opening when she saw the lumberjack. Her short red hair was tucked under her black cowboy hat but tufted out over her ears. “You were meant to help us set up an hour ago!”

“Hey, cool it, Charlie, I know,” the man drawled, sounding apologetic. “That oven marked me for death the moment I moved in and now it’s killing me with how goddamn _slow_ it roasts.” He reached up and dumped a foil-wrapped wad of roast beef on the service counter. “The middle’s done now, finally. Cold-smoke this bitch already.”

Mariela tutted, casting a cold look in their neighbour’s direction. “Must he really cuss like that? Block your ears, mijo. Help me cut this pie.”

Castiel acknowledged his older friend with an affirming hum, then rummaged in the tool tray for a knife – but his curious eyes turned back to this ‘Dean’ in any case. Dean moved fluidly, despite his muscular bulk; he took the hem of his band-logo t-shirt and flapped it, wafting some air against his belly. He had plush and shiny red lips, and even more dazzling eyes, but Castiel tried not to notice. He wasn’t curious about their colour at all, but seemed to remember them being... green? He’d only caught a flash of them as their eyes met in the trumpet-blast of the marching band, but they’d definitely been striking to see.

Dean wiped his hands together as he surveyed the landscape. For a moment, he unknowingly wore the same smile as Castiel. Despite the fact neither of them could see the other side of the street for people, the sun on their faces and the vibrancy of the event was enough to elicit a quiet joy within anyone. Distantly, Castiel could hear the muffled booms of an open-air drag show, and the _vroooooooo-ooo-vvvvroom_ of child-sized go-carts rushing around the nearby marble court. Shouts and screams and ambient clucks of laughter faded together into one big happy summer rumble.

Dean drew in a sweet and smoky breath, chest rising completely. Then he exhaled, and looked to Castiel.

Castiel almost dropped the knife.

Dean’s eyes were indeed green.

  
♥  


Dean tensed as he saw the tidy-looking white dude at the next table along giving him some hardcore stink-eye. Dean wondered what he’d done to offend such a man, someone who’d wear a white ribbed sweater in the unbroken sun of south-east Texas, topped off with a pastel-pink apron. If he could come out dressed like that in _this_ weather, Dean’s existence must really be a stain on his afternoon.

“‘Sup,” Dean tried, with a chin-lift.

The man darkened his gaze and turned his body away, stubbled chin soon following. He pointedly went to the nearest pie and neatened the doily it sat on, knife held aloft in his other hand.

Dean then noticed the sign pinned to the hedge behind their set-up. _Sunday’s Child: Blessed vegan delicacies_. Ugh, no wonder. Bonny, blithe, good, and gay that man may have been, but there had clearly been one ‘fuck’ too many between Dean’s use of ‘Jesus’ and ‘Christ’. According to Dean’s own personal gospel, ‘vegan’ and ‘virgin’ were similar words for good reason.

Dean turned back to the BBQ truck, wearing a smile. “Figures we got planted next to Heaven’s prissiest bake-sale team. What d’ya say, fam, think we could smoke ‘em out?”

“We’re not here to compete with the neighbours, Dean,” Sam said from two feet above, dumping a folded set of clothes on the stainless steel shelf at Dean’s eyeline. “Get dressed and get in here, we’re wasting time.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a fun-sucker?” Dean asked, gripping his uniform pile in one hand. “Hell knows how Mom raised one of you and one of me. I’m just tryna enjoy my afternoon, Sammy.”

“Enjoy it once we’ve broken even,” Sam said, now a fast-moving shadow in the dimly lit truck, hazed around the edges by grill smoke.

Dean sighed. Charlie smiled down at him, which raised his spirits a little.

He looked around. “Where am I meant to get dressed, huh?” he wondered. “I’m not flashing my tits at the whole damn world.”

“Try the hedge,” came a rough, deep voice.

Dean glanced towards the neighbouring stall. “What’s that now?”

“Behind the hedge.” It was that man again. He pointed. “Privacy.”

Dean grimaced, but uttered a thanks as he trudged around his truck and snuffled his way between two prickly ends of hedgerow, finding himself knocking knees with a portable refrigerator and a broomstick. He tossed off his plaid shirt and sweaty band tee, laying them atop the fridge. He pulled his uniform out from between his bowed legs, tugging his black polo-shirt on, popping the collar, and finally covering his front with a black apron. He was still tying up the back as he left the hedge, old clothes hung from his mouth.

“Thanks, man,” he said as he pulled the clothes from his mouth, then scratched at his short beard. “You, uh. You guys professional bakers, or...?”

“Hobbyists,” the man replied, not looking at Dean, busy sectioning a cake into perfect slices. “But we have a sale licence. You?”

Dean chuckled. “You think I’d have a truck painted with ‘ _Winchester Family BBQ and Grill_ ’ if this was just a weekend job? I’m the older Winchester. Dean. Boom.” He stuck out his hand.

The man looked at the hand in distaste. “Have you washed that?”

Dean hesitated, then drew back his hand. “I was going to in a minute,” he said, defensively. “Geez.”

“Castiel,” the man said back, and for a moment Dean wondered if he’d been insulted in Spanish. Responding to Dean’s blank look, the man clarified: “It’s my name.”

“Hah. Bet they spell _that_ right on all your incoming mail.” Dean flicked his eyes upward, then turned away. “Have fun selling your angel cakes, church boy.”

“Do me a favour, Dean,” that rough voice called after him.

Dean looked back, with one boot on the metal step up to the truck. “Uh. Sure. Depends what it is.”

The man smiled hopefully. “Would you mind producing less smoke? Our cakes are going to get contaminated.”

“Dude.” Dean grinned. “It’s a barbecue. We smoke things. It’s _smoky_. Seriously, if your mouth ain’t watering right now there’s somethin’ wrong with you.”

Castiel – that was his name, right? – looked impassive for a moment, then his expression tightened as he took offence. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “There is something wrong with me. I thought you might be wiser than you looked. How quickly _that_ was proven to be a mistake.” With that, he turned away, and didn’t look back.

Dean scoffed. He tilted his head to check out Castiel’s well-defined ass, pursed his lips approvingly, then stepped into his truck, and went to wash his hands in the sink at the back.

  
♥  


It didn’t seem possible that the street could get more crowded, nor more lively, but it did. Confetti cannons blasted through the haze of flavour that rode the thick air. People danced, people drummed, people eclipsed the world beyond the white-draped table. Castiel had never been so grateful for a barrier. He had two feet of space to himself, even if he sometimes shared it with his friends.

Hands moved and cash exchanged hands, it was all a big rush of desserts and paper bags and shouting over the noise.

The smoke came pouring out thicker and hotter as the afternoon ticked on. The heat of the sun was known to soften icing, but with each eddy of wind, the cloying, breath-stealing heat of the barbecue wafted into Castiel’s face, and he saw the cakes truly begin to suffer. He began swapping them in and out of the mini-fridge, trying to save them.

It was only when Dean Winchester stepped outside his truck for a moment to pick up a crate of corn that Castiel saw his chance. He fled his own table and leant over the smaller table that divided them, calling, “Please! Can’t you do anything about the smoke?”

Dean yanked the weight of the crate higher, leaning back. His forehead was sweaty, freckled cheeks flushed, green eyes bright, and his expression turned amused when he saw Castiel. “What d’ya want me to do, exactly?”

“Turn down the heat. Cook something else.”

“Your frou-frou vegan crap and our meat ain’t exactly competing, dude. From what I saw you’re doin’ fine, you don’t need _us_ to strike out.”

“It’s not about money,” Castiel retorted. “I don’t get such terrible headaches from smoke anymore, so it’s not even _that_.”

“So what d’ya have against us, then?” Dean laughed, sliding a step closer, shucking that crate higher. “Or should I just assume?”

“Dean, I’ve spent too long and worked too hard to keep this food free of contaminants. I am _not_ allowing some shortsighted community organiser who put our stands together and didn’t think two steps ahead to ruin everything for _everybody_.”

Dean sniffed, half-grinning. “And some smoke ruins everything? Look, champ, if you don’t want your cake improved with some actual flavour, don’t eat it.”

Castiel’s jaw tensed, and he growled out, “I can smell the meat you’re cooking and that means little particles are flying in our direction and landing on our food. We can’t claim it’s vegan if there’s meat on it.”

“It’s smoke, man, it’s not exactly meat still. Burnt to oblivion.”

“And yet you’re claiming your charred animal carcasses are edible, when they’re _burnt to oblivion_.”

Dean scoffed. “You ever actually _tried_ eating charred animal carcass? Delicious.”

“I’m not vegan, Dean. I eat animal products. It’s not about me.”

“Seriously?” With a raise of his eyebrows, Dean realised, “Wait... you’re... actually worried about your cakes. It’s not just – y’know – some personal vegan vendetta against a true and genuine Meat Man?”

“Yes! No!” Castiel squinted, then said, “Meat Man? Is that a euphemism?”

Dean huffed a laugh, eyes flicked up. “Look, hot stuff, I’ll see what I can do. But short of one of us shutting up shop, Cas, I can’t promise you shit.”

Castiel flushed with heat upon being called ‘hot stuff’, again at the shortened use of his name, then again at the cuss. “Thank you,” he snapped, rather shaken by the tingles that refused to settle.

Dean smirked. “You’re welcome.”

Castiel found himself smiling, angry, and thrilled. “Crawl back to your den of iniquity, Dean.”

Dean winked. And he left, looking back once to grin. Castiel caught his eyes, and turned away, blushing.

  
♥  


Castiel was surprised to see a fiery red-and-black flag burst into existence two feet in front of him, just off to the left. Dean adjusted its weighted foot with several kicks, then peered around it to check its taut, curved shape wasn’t about to poke anyone’s eye out as people passed underneath. The breeze fluttered its cloth, changing ‘ _Smoin’ Shgun – WinchesFam BBd Grill_ ’ to ‘ _kin’ Shotun – ster Family BQ and rill_ ’, then back again.

“What’s that for?” Castiel asked.

“You asked to be spared the smoke, didn’t ya?” Dean came to stand by the table’s corner, hands on his hips. “I wasn’t gonna put the flag up but if it directs some of the breeze away, that’s something, right? Best I can do right this second.”

Castiel smiled. “Thank you.” Of course he could still smell the meat, but he was grateful for the gesture. “Do you want some cake? Or there’s pie. Pastry? On me.”

Dean wrinkled his upper lip. “Hng. Pass. You guys do your thing, I’ll, uh. I’ll stick to real food. No offence.”

Castiel squinted. “You don’t eat dessert?”

“Pie? Yeah. A decent fruit pie’s the best thing on God’s green Earth—” Castiel grinned, glad they were in agreement there. “But.” Dean’s smile twitched wider, responding to Castiel’s grin, but with a huff, he finished, “But c’mon, what’s the point if it’s vegan and – and gluten free, y’know?” He’d seen the ‘gluten free’ sign by the peach pie and seemed to draw away from it like it was explosive. “To each his own, I guess, but no thanks. ‘Preciate the offer, though. Really.”

“Dean,” Castiel said, amused, “what do you imagine is not contained within a vegan and gluten free pie that makes it so lacking?”

“Uh. The gluten. And the... flavour.” He said it like it was obvious.

Kindly, Castiel explained, “Gluten has no flavour, it’s a protein molecule. Most commonly it’s made from wheat. It’s a binder. Food glue. But a lot of people are allergic to it, and it’s hard for them to find safe food, especially when eating out. Admittedly,” he tipped his head, “without it your dough texture is altered, but that’s easily remedied with the right replacements.” He gestured to his peach pie. “Here I used a chickpea and rice flour base, thickened with arrowroot. It’s flavoured with _real_ cinnamon and sweetened with _real_ sugar. It’s not made of wheat or corn but I promise you, that doesn’t mean it’s any less sturdy or delicious. To make the pie vegan all I had to do was swap butter for coconut oil, cow milk for coconut milk, and gelatin for agar-agar. Which is made from algae, but that shouldn’t be any more off-putting than gelatin coming from cow hooves. Have you ever had peach and coconut pie?”

Dean arched his lips with mild consideration. “Nuh-uh.”

“Does that sound good?”

“Um. Nnnot... the worst. But.”

“Try it,” Castiel insisted, taking a little silver trowel from under that pie, and sliding a piece into a paper bag. “On the house. Or on the street, as it happens.”

Dean’s hand moved in two aborted movements, but took the bag and crumpled it until the pie poked out the top. He checked with Castiel, unsurely, but after seeing an encouraging hand-movement, he tilted his head and took a nibble of the pie tip.

He rolled the morsel between palate and tongue, then swallowed.

“Awful, isn’t it,” Castiel smiled.

Dean huffed through an easy grin. “Naw. It’s.” He took another bite, a proper one this time. “Mm.” He touched fingertips to lips, swiping a crumb. “God, that’s— Actually not bad.” He scrunched the bag some more and nosed into it, eyes half-closed as the world faded from his awareness and he devoted all his attention to Castiel’s baking.

Castiel swelled with pride.

“Excuse me, sir!” Castiel startled as Mariela touched his side. She then leaned past Castiel and told Dean, “Four dollars.”

“Oh, no, no, it’s my gift,” Castiel said, looking between the frustrated Mariela and the now-bashful Dean. “Really, don’t worry about it.”

Mariela Flores Dominguez had this way of making Castiel feel guilty without him knowing exactly how, but she did that thing a lot all of a sudden, and Castiel’s blood ran cold. He flashed Dean a smile, repeating, breathily, “It’s... free.”

Dean’s left cheek bulged with the pie crust, and he crumpled the empty paper bag, then mumbled, “Hey, look, I can get it. It’s no trouble.”

“Four dollars,” Mariela said, hand out.

Castiel groaned and palmed his forehead with both hands. “Mariela, _please_ , he was kind enough to put up the sail—”

Dean had gone to the opening of the BBQ truck, bypassing a gaggle of customers and knocking knuckles on the metal. “Charlie, need four bucks. Some broad’s makin’ me pay for my free sample.”

“Oh, Dean, no—” Castiel cried. He turned to Mariela, but her glare made him swallow his complaints, and he sank back, letting Mariela take a five-dollar bill from Dean’s hand.

Dean shot Castiel a comforting look, then, once Mariela turned away with the money, he uttered, “Hey, don’t worry about it, buddy. My little brother Sammy’s like that. Freaks out every time I give a chick a free drink. ‘Cuts into profits’ this, ‘flirt on your free time’ that.” Dean touched Castiel’s shoulder with a warm hand, then let go and took the change Mariela offered. “Thanks, Cas. Pie was awesome. Totally worth the overpricing.” His eyes lingered on Castiel’s, sparkling bright, then lowered away, a faint smile on Dean’s lips as he went back to his truck.

“Flirting,” Castiel echoed under his breath. “ _Flirting_ —? I wasn’t...”

He tilted his head, then twinged inside as he realised, actually, maybe he was.

No wonder Mariela was mad at him. Dean wasn’t her ideal match for him at _all_. Practically the opposite, in fact.

  
♥  



	2. Smoke and Mirrors

The wind changed direction about four p.m., which seemed like a relief, except it was rather too little, too late, as _Sunday’s Child_ was almost out of product to sell. Castiel pulled his precious chocolate gateau from the mini-fridge just as the last apple tarts were disappearing.

But he paused.

Having made a decision, as well as a secondary decision not to feel guilty about it, he set the cake on top of the fridge. He vacated the space behind the hedges and went back to the street, snuck a couple of paper bags into a hand, then slunk back to the fridge with the bags hidden behind his thigh, trying to act casual.

He slid three slices of cake into the bags with a sticky-handled serving fork, rolled the bags’ tops, and hid them away in the fridge. He then took the remainder of the cake out and placed it on the table, propping up the ‘ _Vegan Gluten Free & Nut Free Chocolate Berry Gateau – $6 per piece_’ sign in front of it.

Mariela didn’t notice there were eighteen dollars’ worth of cake missing. Neither did Belén. Of course Amy, Carla, and Yunia were too far along the table to even care. Yunia was already tallying up the profits for the day, licking her finger between every swipe of a dozen paper notes, and Carla had put her feet up on a folding chair, sipping on the blue sludge from the bottom of a melted ice cone as she idly watched people pass by.

Several times throughout the afternoon, the metal door at the side of _Smokin’ Shotgun_ had burst open, and Dean had come swaggering out, sweaty and smoky and gleaming beautifully in the sun. He’d put down empty crates and picked up new ones, and twice vanished into the crowd and come back a half-hour later with a wheely cart stacked with aluminum-covered trays. He’d shot Castiel a grin each time, or Castiel had waved, but a shout from little brother Sammy had dragged Dean’s attention back, each time drawing a “I’m _doing_ it, ass-face,” out of Dean, or perhaps a “ _You_ wanna fight the fuckin’ crowd next time, Sammy? If I’d gone any faster I would’a mowed down half of Texas. _God_.”

Each time a swear word or careless blaspheme reached the ears of Castiel’s friends, he heard their mumbles of disgust, and the jingle-jangle of metal bracelets as they crossed their chests. He himself followed their lead somewhat lethargically, shooting Dean perfunctory glares, but couldn’t help smirk as he did so.

It seemed like Dean did try to make his way over to the cake table at every opportunity, eyes on Castiel as he surveyed the goods, but never got more than a half-minute before that truck door yawned wide and either Charlie or Sammy came out, looking around for Dean.

“Alright, fine,” Charlie said, catching sight of Castiel. “You’re right, Dean, he is dreamy. An absolute dish. But we’ve got a backorder of rump steaks and a pile of corn going nowhere fast, so get in here.” She thumbed over her shoulder. She gave Castiel a fast smile, uttering, “Hi there. Cute apron,” then yanked Dean by the collar and dragged him stumbling and stuttering back to work.

Amongst all the stammering, Castiel heard Dean impress that ‘dreamy’ and ‘dish’ were Charlie’s words, not his own, but his flustered manner somewhat said otherwise. The door slammed, and Castiel heard some muffled yelling. Dean didn’t sound happy.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Dean didn’t strike Castiel as an especially highly strung person. He seemed to be responding solely to his family’s agitation. Castiel loitered for a while, wondering if the other Winchesters were okay. Sammy, like Charlie, had been trapped in that sweltering metal box for many, many hours, and Castiel was growing concerned for all their health. It had to feel like the Pit itself inside there.

By the time Mariela decided it was time to pack up _Sunday’s Child_ and go home, three glass bottles of ginger-and-lemon coconut water had secretly found their way into the mini-fridge, to keep the cake company.

Once Castiel had packed away the unused tools next to the used ones – everything needed a wash anyway – two plastic bottles of spring water had joined everything else, since Castiel had been hiding a whole pack in the shade for himself, but had already drunk his fill from a third bottle, and given the others to his friends. There was more than enough to spare.

As the table folded up, and the tablecloth was stretched and collapsed between Carla and Amy’s hands, Castiel gave out hugs, telling Mariela she’d organised this wonderfully, and he was sorry there weren’t more baked goods to take them through to the evening.

“Ohh, don’t you worry about it, mijo,” Mariela told him, cupping his chin. “You made so many. You worked so _hard_. We have enough for the wheelchair ramps now, you should be proud.”

Castiel nodded with a smile. “Thank you.”

“Amy, get the—” Mariela gestured to the hedges, shaking a hand. “The-the—” In her fatigue she’d forgotten the word for ‘fridge’.

“Oh! I’ll get it,” Castiel said hastily, taking Mariela’s hand. “I can carry it to my car when I leave. I, um. I want to wander around for a while.” His eyes darted to the barbecue truck, then back. “S-See what else is happening.”

Mariela looked back at Castiel, a slow suspicion coming over her demeanour. She had small eyes, which seemed to shrink as she gave him a closer examination. He withered inside his sweater, but after a pang of terror coursed through him, he found he could straighten up and look as innocent as he needed.

“Mijo,” Mariela said tiredly, patting him gently on the left cheek, once, twice, three times. “You’re a good boy.” She sighed. “You remind me so _much_ of my son.”

She said it with _acute_ disappointment.

With another quietly dramatic whine of a sigh, she turned away, eyes lingering on Castiel for a moment more before she fell into an easy volley of Spanish commands, rallying her ladies and taking one end of the folded table under one arm, as Yunia took the other.

Castiel waited until they were all gone, then stepped up to the door of the catering truck and rapped on the metal. _Thum thum thum_ , it went.

Five seconds later, the door swung open, Charlie leaning on the handle. “Oh, it’s you! Hey. Your table’s gone.”

“Oh. Yes. We packed up. Ran out of cakes.”

“Oh, congrats! We’re actually almost out ourselves. Actually, um – no offence, but we’ve kinda got a lot of work to do, so—”

“No, no, don’t worry, I won’t keep you.” Castiel scratched his forehead. “Can I help?”

Dean leaned around Charlie, wearing a grin and a sheen of sweat. “Aw, hey, Cas. What’s up?”

Charlie leaned back to let a gust of outdoor air ruffle Dean’s spiked-up hair. “Your boyfriend’s offering to _help_.”

Dean’s grin widened. “Always the good guy, huh. Hey, Sammy? Can we get Cas to do somethin’ with the scraps?”

“Oh, _now_ I get a say in what _Cas_ does, do I?” Sam uttered. “Do what you want, Dean. It’s not like I care anymore.”

Dean huffed. He thumped his chin to his chest, exhaling. “Okay.” Then he looked up. “Sam? Sam. Hey. Hey-hey, look at me. Look at me?”

Sam slammed a metal prong down on the flaming grill, then turned to Dean, as if about to burst into flames himself. “ _What?_ ”

“It’s okay,” Dean said gently. “It’s all fine. We broke even. Better than that, we made a helluva profit – _and_ tips. Ten more minutes and we’re outta here. You’ll catch Jess, I swear. She said she wouldn’t take off until you saw her. Okay? It’s not even five o’clock yet. Deep breath, alright?”

“I don’t need a _breath_ , I need you to get those _damn_ trays out of the sink and wipe that thing down and for _God’s_ sake get out of my face and do your _job_.”

Dean tried to placate his brother with raised hands, but Sam turned away and began shovelling burnt scraps off the grill and making the flames flare up.

Castiel stood awkwardly outside the door, hugging himself.

Charlie gave him a sorry look. Then she brightened, and said, “One sec. B-R-B.”

The door closed, and Castiel heard a lot of clattering. Then Charlie appeared again, handing him a pile of trays encrusted with burnt black stuff and glossed with animal fat. “The hose is behind the truck. Have fun.”

Castiel chuckled, nodding. “It would be my pleasure. And— Charlie. It is Charlie, yes?” She nodded. “I saved some treats for all of you. Tell me when you’re ready, I’ll bring them.”

“Aww!” She touched her heart, but her attention was still on the bickering inside. “Thanks. Seriously.” She retreated.

Castiel went to the back of the trunk and found a tap coming off the vehicle. Wiry metal brush in hand, and his pink apron firmly in place, he let the water flow, and began scraping.

  
♥  


Sam eventually emerged from the truck, palming at his face. Dean followed, then Charlie. They all took deep, relieved breaths. Dean slumped against the truck’s side, eyes closed, head back. Sam bent forward to touch his toes, making his spine pop in five places. Charlie took off her hat and waved it at her face, revealing the hat-shaped helmet of hair moulded to her skull.

Castiel finished sweeping the soggy, sooty mess into the curb, then leaned on the broomstick, looking ponderously at his neighbours. “I couldn’t imagine,” he told them, “sticking that out for so long. It’s like an oven in there.”

“Honestly?” Dean chuckled. “Ain’t that much cooler out here. Bright as hell, though. God. I’m seeing spots.”

Castiel leaned the broom on the truck, then bent to wash his hands. He shook them dry, passing the trio. “Give me one minute, I have something for you. Sam— Please stay, just for a bit.”

Sam opened his mouth, but at Dean’s insistent glance, he threw up a hand and managed to smile. “One minute, then.”

Castiel hurried to the mini-fridge, took off his apron and collected his goodies, then hurried back, arms laden with things he tried hard not to drop. “Water. Carbonated drinks. And cake. Hope you like chocolate.”

For the first time, Castiel saw light in Sam’s eyes. He slowly let his long hair out of the bun behind his head, and it fell to his shoulders. He clawed fingers back through it, and a quiet, obviously grateful “Thanks” fell from his lips as he took the flavoured coconut water. He uncapped his bottle along with Charlie and Dean – three counts of _pchhhtt!...tsss_ – and they clinked the glass together before drinking.

Dean screwed up his face, looking at the bottle in bafflement. Charlie glugged hers down until she coughed, then burped, overwhelmed by the fizzy bubbles. Sam shut his eyes, taking one sip at a time, savouring each.

Soon Sam opened his eyes, and he gave Castiel a kind and gentle smile. “Sorry.” His smile twitched up, a bit tense. “Sorry you had to see all that earlier.”

Dean patted his brother’s back. “Apology accepted, little brother.”

Sam huffed a laugh, casting Dean a subdued look. “Sorry to you too. I just— The heat— The stress of it all, I don’t know— Dehydrated—”

Dean gave the back of his brother’s neck a squeeze. “Look man, forget it. If I couldn’t handle your hissy fits, you think I’d still be making you show up to these things? C’mon. I know you hate cooking all day. Drink your weird juice and go find your girlfriend. You deserve it.”

Sam accepted Charlie’s hug, eyes shut as he squished her back. He stood tall, taking a breath at last. Then he lifted his apron from his neck, draped the whole thing over Dean’s head, and faded into the crowd. He was a head taller than most, so Castiel could track him as he headed towards the bridge.

Dean pulled back the apron like a curtain past his face, then let it slump down to his shoulder. He gave the coconut water another taste, and smacked his tongue to the roof of his mouth a few times. “Okay. It’s growing on me. The hell is this crap, anyway? Tastes like a piña colada watered down.”

“Yeaaah, pretty much,” Charlie said, resting against the truck in the shade. The tip of her nose glowed with sunlight. “God, what a day. Don’t think you ever did as much grilling as you did today. My fingers are sore from ringing up totals. And my back is _killing_ me.”

“You want some?” Dean asked, offering Castiel his bottle. “Or are you just palming this off on us ‘cause nobody bought it?”

Castiel laughed, shaking his head. “I kept myself hydrated.”

“But do you _want_ some?” Dean offered again.

Castiel was about to say no, but the bubbles in the yellow drink were rising enticingly, the sun flashed on the bottle’s edge, and its glass curves were dotted with condensation... His mouth started to water. He gave in and took Dean’s drink, pretending not to blush as his lips touched the rim, right where Dean’s lips had been. He took a few individual swigs, letting the fizz burn his mouth as he held it there, then swallowed in multiple gulps.

“Thank you,” he said, handing the half-empty bottle back to Dean, who’d been watching him drink. “Do you want cake?”

Charlie cooed and made grabby-hands, so Castiel gave her the bag with a single piece inside.

“Nut free, gluten free, egg free—”

“Everything free and yet your lady friend charged me four freakin’ bucks,” Dean said, peering into the other bag. “Aw, hey, there’s two. Awesome. Here.” Dean shredded the paper bag expertly into two halves, each becoming a little cone to hold one slice of mushy chocolate cake. “Mm, is that berry? Hell yeah. Gimme.”

Castiel held his $6 cake dazedly, watching as Dean smushed his cake to his lips, apparently more interested in making out with it than eating it. But he did lick his lips, and started to chew, making happy, content noises. “Hhhmmmm, ‘s good. Fuck. And I don’t even like cake. Don’t tell Sammy I ate cake willingly, he’ll never let me live it down.”

Castiel, while confused, offered a smile and said, “Your secret is safe with me.”

Charlie finished her cake and drink first, and purred with satisfaction – then groaned, remembering all the work still to come. “I’m gonna go in and pack up. You two... enjoy. Thanks again for the refreshment, Cas. Was heavenly.” She patted Dean’s shoulder and scampered off, leaving Dean looking shy and eager.

Castiel suddenly became aware that he was alone with Dean for the first time, and the man was very, very attractive. Dean reeked of smoke and sweat, and the combination was more intriguing than it ought to be. He smelled... woodsy. Like the experience of forest camping in midsummer, turned into a person.

“Um,” Castiel said.

“Yeah, uh.” Dean started sucking at the paper bag, getting chocolate on his nose. “So you’re, ummm. Jesus fan.”

“Big... ‘fan’, yes,” Castiel said with a small smile.

“Right.” Dean licked his lips, eyes hesitant to meet Castiel’s, but when they did, the contact locked, and Castiel stared openly, awed by all the shades of green in Dean’s irises. Even in the shade of the truck, they were spectacular.

Dean sucked in a breath. “You know, I always thought Jesus was – kinda hot.”

Castiel’s brows knitted. “I’m sorry?”

“Like, all wrapped in the, the.” Dean waved his hands openly around his waist. “Toga thing? Loincloth. Topless? I dunno. Just. Okay, that’s weird. Forget I said it.” He laughed breathily, head down, deep wrinkles skewing the freckles beside his eyes. “My, uh, gaydar’s not so good. Took me forever to realise _I_ was bi, so. Figures. Can’t see the sub when it’s pinging the radar constantly, right? Right on top of it.”

Castiel gazed at Dean for a while, starting to smile. “I am gay, actually.”

Dean’s eyes shot up. “You are?”

“Jesus just isn’t my type, I think. He’s more of a mentor figure.”

Dean laughed, turning away, rubbing the back of his neck. He came back, blushing and nervous. “So-so, uh. You, uh. What is? Your type. Like, generally.”

Castiel hummed, eyes down on his half-eaten cake. “Depends. What are you? Besides bisexual, a barbecue expert, and so beautiful it hurts?”

Dean sobbed with laughter, fist to his eyes. He took a number of seconds to recover. “Aw _man_. That was smooth. Okay. Whew.” He sniffed, trying to act like he wasn’t falling apart, a shaky smile on his lips. “Um. I. Used to be lead singer for a band, I guess? Rockstar dreams. But filling bellies came in a close second on the list of passions, so ran with that.”

“Oh? Why _not_ be a rockstar?” Castiel asked. “You look the part.”

Dean waved a hand. “Pff. Didn’t pan out. This was before autotune.”

“You mean you couldn’t sing.”

Dean shrugged, slipping his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans, wrinkling his grease-darkened apron. “How ‘bout you? What’re you about?”

“I run an after-school mathematics program,” Castiel said, picking at the last of his cake, then giving the bag to Dean to lick when he looked wanton. “Middle-schoolers and high-schoolers, usually, but I have worksheets for younger children, and I’m working on expanding to adults. Local schools have started referring underperforming students my way, which is exciting. It started as a hobby when I was between desk jobs, and turned into a real company, somehow. It’s been years in the making, I never really knew what would come of it, but— Sorry, this is boring.”

Dean lifted his chin. “Wha? Naw, it’s not boring. Dude, I just really dig this cake. So you teach kiddos numbers and shit. Hah – that’s basically Sam’s dream job, he’s gonna go puppy-eyed when I tell him later. So, then you go home and, what, bake stuff outta rare ingredients?”

“What can I say, I enjoy a challenge,” Castiel smiled. “Tell me if I’m rambling. Mariela says I talk too much.”

Dean snorted. “Well she’s gay too, right? Little church gay club?”

“Yyy...eeeah, why?”

“She can’t appreciate how good your voice is,” Dean said casually, tongue on the gooey paper. “Hm. ‘S all... mellow and rumbly and—” Dean flashed a grin, realising what he was saying. “Talk all you want, is what I mean. I’m listenin’.”

Castiel blinked a few times, wondering if Dean was teasing him.

“Anyway,” Dean said, finally balling up the paper and stuffing it into the neck of the empty bottle, “everything you touch obviously turns to gold, so what _aren’t_ you good at, huh?”

Castiel shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t tried everything yet.”

Dean peered at him, then started to beam.

“What?” Castiel fretted, wondering if he’d said something wrong.

“Nothin’,” Dean said, head down. “Just. Listen, this might sound crazy forward, but is there any chance you’d wanna come by my place next Saturday night? I got a pool table set up and drinks and dinner. Nothing special, but I’m cooking, so.”

Castiel blinked a few times. “You... want me to visit your home. And eat dinner.”

“You do _eat_ meat, right? I can buy you a bunch of coconuts if that’s more your style. Could probably grill coconut.”

Castiel chuckled in surprise. “Um. That’s kind of you, but you don’t have to do that. I’d love to try some of your cooking, it did smell amazing. I do eat meat. Rarely, but yes.”

Dean gasped and snapped his fingers. “Dude! Wait here. Hang on.”

He ran into the truck, slammed a fridge open and shut, then ran back out. He gave a bright and happy grin, presenting Castiel with a fold-constructed thin cardboard box with the _Smokin’ Shotgun_ logo on the top. The brown box was dark with grease and bending from the weight of whatever was inside.

“Take it,” Dean said, as Castiel took it. “I was savin’ it for my dinner but I’m sick of eating nothing but this stuff anyway. Million other things to enjoy out here, right? You have this. I’mma go find chicken salad or sushi or somethin’.”

Castiel peered into the box, and made an involuntary sound of delight as he saw there was practically one of everything inside, from ribs to steak to corn, then spicy potato wedges with their various dips in separate pots, to packets of ketchup and _Smokin’ Shotgun_ ’s own BBQ sauce with a logo sticker on the pot lid. “Dean, this is amazing. Oh, and it smells—” He shut his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose.

Salty. Succulent. Sweet. He could tell without a lick that the meat would fall apart on his tongue yet retain the perfect crunch and texture in each bite, and the sauces would melt in his mouth, tickling every tastebud he had.

“Ohhh my _God_ ,” he moaned.

“Oop, watch it,” Dean warned. “Your lady friends didn’t seem to like me takin’ the Lord’s name in vain. Can’t be any better for you.”

Castiel smiled. “Dean, after you’ve just handed me this feast, I can assure you, I most certainly did not use God’s name in _vain_.”

Dean worked up a little sideways grin. “Heh.”

“I don’t actually eat corn,” Castiel said, eyeing the black-edged yellow thing. “Or most grains, for that matter. But if I cut around the side of the steak that touched it I think I’ll be fine. Oh— What’s in the sauce?”

Dean laughed. “You tryna get me to tell you my secret recipe? Nice try, pal.”

“No, I— I just need to know if I’m allergic. Does it have wheat in it?”

“You mean like flour? Nah.”

“Egg?”

“What’s wrong with egg? Thought you weren’t vegan.”

“Chickens eat corn so it’s in the eggs. I don’t eat chicken either. Corn has a molecule that’s very similar to gluten.”

Face screwed up in bafflement, Dean said, “Uhhhh. Wait, the uh—? Corn. The ketchup base for our sauce has corn syrup. Is that—”

“Oh. Yes. No.” Castiel smiled sadly. “Is there anything in here that doesn’t have your barbecue sauce on it?”

“The steak?” Dean ducked to look in the box. “And the wedges. But the basting sauce is different to the dipping sauce. For the basting sauce I use brown sugar instead of syrup.”

“Oh!” Castiel felt his heart lift. “So I can eat the meat. But... you’d use the same tongs to turn everything though, wouldn’t you—”

“Nah. Nah, we keep everything separate from meat,” Dean said with a glad smile. “Different colour-coded tongs, separate grill, everything. No crossover. I pre-cook meat at home, and do dairy stuff and veggies in the truck. Kosher sells way better around here, that’s why. I had to ban _bacon_ from my house, can you believe that? But hey, whatever brings in the customers. Cas, you toss that corn to the birds, give some lucky-ass rando your dip, and cut around everything that damn corn touched, man. All yours.”

Castiel wanted to throw his arms around Dean and laugh for joy. But he simply closed up the box, and said, calmly, “Thank you, Dean.”

“Hey, just leave us a five-star Yelp review. That’s _Smokin’ Shotgun_ , with an apostrophe. Look up ‘ _Winchester BBQ Austin_ ’, you’ll find it.”

“Okay.” Castiel hesitated, then said, “Dean...? Um, about what you said before... I think you should know... While I absolutely appreciate the invitation to dinner with you, I... I’ve never actually... accepted anyone’s offer before, truth be told. Dating you so soon after meeting you would be very new to me.”

“Dati— OH! No. No, it’s— Not exactly a date. Well, it could be? But I mean, no. It’s a housewarming party. Mine. I just moved to a new place, just figured I should have my pals come ‘round, hang out, have some beers, play a few rounds. Christen the place, so to speak. It’s casual. You could bring some of your fancy desserts if you wanted, but no pressure. I’d wanna try it again, though. It’s awesome. Seriously. Maybe then Sam would believe that the Meat Man actually ate something vegan. He’d wouldn’t believe me even if I told him I’m the one stealing his lettuce.”

Castiel gave an amused, flattered smile. “Hmmm. Alright. Can I have your telephone number and address?”

Dean snickered, but dug into his apron pocket to find a restaurant-order notebook and pencil. “ _Telephone_. Who says ‘telephone’ anymore?”

“That’s the word,” Castiel said in confusion. “Telephones are called... telephones. Landline telephones. Cellular telephones.”

Dean kept on chuckling, but rested the pad on the truck’s side to write his contact details down, then tore the page off and gave it to Castiel.

“Call me,” Dean said with a tilt of his head. “On my... cellular telephone.”

Castiel nodded. “I will.”

Dean clapped Castiel on the arm, then cocked his head, indicating that he had more work to do inside the truck. Castiel waved gently and let him go, then turned away, and went to put his gifted BBQ into the mini-fridge.

He then unplugged the mini-fridge and heaved the thing into his arms, and stomped his way carefully through the crowd, intending to make a beeline to his car, but found himself stopping at two dozen stalls on his way, enjoying the sights and sounds and all the pretty things there to look at and buy.

The crowd didn’t bother him so much, now. People gave him and his mini-fridge piled up with vintage crockery a pretty wide berth.

  
♥  



	3. Going Up in Smoke

Dean’s new home was not actually in Austin, but about twenty-five minutes outside the city limits. It wasn’t quite the suburbs, either, but the houses were too close to call it rural. The sun melted down into gold through the flickering boughs of roadside trees, each trunk swishing cooly past Castiel’s Lincoln Continental. He drove more slowly here, as the road snaked in unfamiliar ways. This quiet nook of the world seemed forgotten.

There were barely any houses around – but Castiel’s more basal fears were calmed by the fact each house he _did_ spot amidst the sparse forest was painted cheerfully and blazed bright yellow inside each window. He once saw children playing on a tire swing, chirping with laughter as he passed. There were sheep, and one alpaca, who all bolted back from the fence as his car approached and shot by.

He counted the house numbers on the mailboxes, then realised he’d overshot, and reversed back twenty feet, twisting to look over his shoulder.

There it was. The weedy little driveway for number 107, crammed between better-kept hedges that clearly didn’t belong to Dean.

Castiel nosed his car down the drive, bumping and scrumbling over sandy potholes and the gravel that once filled in the gaps but had been scattered by heavy wheels.

He curved around an opening between droopy-leafed trees, head ducked down to see a collection of parked cars all blocking each other in, right in front of the porch of a pleasantly compact and rustic two-storey cabin. In the pink light of late evening, Castiel saw a tow truck, several dusty pickups, a vintage muscle car with a white stripe down its hood, right next to a massive 1960s black coupe shined up to look new, then something small and yellow, a 90s BMW, and three brown horses reined to a fence, who all watched him warily.

Castiel pulled up onto a grass verge, unwilling to move his car later to let someone else out. He winced as his bumper knocked a wire-and-post fence, but the fence bent, and straightened up again as he reversed.

Car parked, he opened up his door, and with his pastel-yellow tupperware in both hands, stepped out into a gossamer-soft evening. Straight away he felt his cheeks caressed by the sweetness of dusty summer blossom. Tobacco smoke mingled with the barbecue smog, and he put on a nice smile as he shut his car door and paced through the dust up to the cabin.

There were two old men sitting on the porch, smoking: one tall, bony, and black, perched on a rocking chair, the other shorter, plumper, and ruddy-white, leaning back in a wheelchair. The stockier fellow lifted the rim of his baseball cap to give Castiel a curious look.

“Is this Dean’s house?” Castiel asked. “My name’s Castiel. I was invited for a party?”

The men shared a similar snort, then looked at each other, and chuckled.

“Yep,” the white man said, turning his grizzled face back to Castiel. “That’s a real fancy shirt you’re wearin’, kid. What is that, silk?”

Castiel looked down at his best ivory button-up, which was tucked in neatly. “Satin, actually,” he said. “Do I go inside?”

The black guy leaned right to push the front door open, and the chatter of many voices and the bass-thump of music teased out along with a stripe of gold light. The man said nothing, just blew a ring of smoke.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, bowing his head a little as he stepped up onto the wooden porch. He heard his footsteps clomp as he came to the red welcome mat. _Awesome People Only_ , the welcome mat said in black. Castiel smiled, and went inside.

Immediately the thickness of beer smothered his senses, and between the warm, dim lighting and the pungence of alcohol, he felt like he was breathing liquid amber. There were almost twenty people in here – too many people for a living room so small. Smiling figures hung around the verdancy of a pool table, where the _clik! clack-clack-poffk_ sounded out clearly through the party’s thrum.

Castiel edged his way in, smiling at an Asian boy aged about sixteen, then a flamboyant redheaded woman in an evening gown. Everyone else was strong-jawed and big-biceped and moved like they were about to punch something.

Castiel looked around for a place to set down his edible offerings. There were antlers fixed on the panelled wall above the unlit fireplace, and old wooden beams crossing the ceiling. He found the divide between living room and kitchen, and under the arched beam, there was a dining table laden with food.

He took the lid off his tupperware and tucked it underneath the box, thinking for a moment that his little rainbow-glitter cupcakes looked out of place amidst all the brown and red. He saw meat of a dozen kinds, beside bun-cuddled sausages and grilled vegetables, bowls of spiced beans, and bottled beer. There was one bowl of neon-green salad but it looked nearly untouched next to the half-empty plates everywhere else.

Would anyone here even _want_ pretty cakes? These people didn’t seem the sort who ate cakes. Certainly not, given Dean had made Castiel promise not to mention the fact he ate cake before.

Nevertheless, Castiel put down his cakes in a spare corner of the table, then looked around to find Dean.

Charlie came crab-stepping out from behind a bristle-cheeked man in a black cap. Her eyes lit up as she saw Castiel. “Oh, hey! You made it!”

“Hello. Oh!” Castiel was surprised to be dragged into a hug, but smiled through it, grinning as Charlie let go. “Is Dean here?”

“Kitchen,” Charlie said. “Give him a few minutes, he’s almost done.” She held Castiel’s arms, and looked down at his outfit. “Hmm, interesting choice. Shirt tucked _in_.”

“It’s my best shirt,” Castiel explained. He glanced around. “Everyone here does seem to like their leather and plaid, though, don’t they?”

“Well,” Charlie said, turning to face the masses. “There you have your game hunters, your gunslingers, your horse-ranchers Cesar and Jesse, your Navy veteran workout trainers – heya, Benny – your family-business Harvelle bartenders. That’s them figuratively murdering everyone at pool. Garth. Mortician Billie over there. And whatever Rowena is; that’s her in the snazzy ballgown. When Jody and Donna are off-duty, they are _off_ -duty, so don’t worry too much if you break a minor law. Half Dean’s party playlist is pirated anyways. That’s Advanced-Placement math nerd Kevin and his mom, they’re in my D-n-D club. Missouri might read your palm if you ask nice. Oh, Mary— Mary!”

A peachy-cheeked blonde woman in her late fifties turned around, and her eyes lighted on Charlie and Castiel. “You called?”

“Try these with me.” Charlie showed Mary the cakes Castiel had brought. “You would not _believe_ how good Castiel’s baking is. Mm.” With two cakes scooped into black napkins, Mary and Charlie both sampled Castiel’s gift, and hummed in amazement.

“What is that?” Mary asked. “Sherbet? That’s so _delicate._ Wow. Ellen! Babe! Get over here, this is gonna blow your mind.”

Castiel’s heart leapt, relieved and excited. Perhaps looks were deceiving, just as they had been with Dean. Perhaps rough-looking crowds like this didn’t often get to see cupcakes with three pastel colours swirled into the icing, scattered with sparkly edible stars. This had to be a real treat for them.

A leather-jacketed, brown-haired lady now pushed out of the crowd, letting Mary pop the remainder of the cupcake into her mouth. “Hm!” Ellen didn’t hesitate before taking another.

Before long a number of women had emerged from seemingly nowhere, cooing over the cakes. Castiel stepped back with a laugh, watching the feasting frenzy. Sam, who had been poring over the pool table and looking baffled at his loss, now peeked up, and left his pool cue behind to see what the fuss was about.

Castiel realised with a flash of panic that the box of cakes was emptying, and after Billie the mortician had taken three – one for herself and two for the old men outside – there was only one cake left. Castiel lurched for the box, ready to close it up, but in the split-second between lifting the lid from underneath and lowering it over the top, the last cake was taken by young Kevin, and he was so small and sprightly that he was gone before Castiel could open his mouth to protest.

His heart sank. Dean wouldn’t even get to taste his gift.

“Al _right_!” came a bark from the kitchen, as Dean emerged with sooty hands and tongs hung from a thumb, a tray grasped before him and slid down onto the table. “More meat. Crisped to perfection. Courtesy of the Meat Man.”

Sam chuckled from amidst the cheers, “You gotta stop calling yourself that, I am _begging_ you.”

“Okay, Salad Sammy.”

“Stooohhp.”

Dean laughed. “C’mere.” He beckoned to his brother. He pulled him in close, muttering like he had something to whisper... He grinned, and snickered into Sam’s face, “Listen. Listen. I’m the fuckin’ Meat Man.”

Sam threw up his hands and turned away, laughing. Dean knocked a fist after Sam, then looked around at his guests, grinning. He looked all ruffled and relaxed, more comfortable than he had been at the fair. He slung off his apron, tossed it on the back of a wooden dining chair, then re-rolled up his plaid sleeves to the elbows, clapped his hands, and sauntered up to the food.

“A’ight. What’s left? Aw, you bastards ate all the ribs! Come _on_ , assholes.” A careless, yet fond cheer and a forest of raised bottles met this complaint, and Dean grinned, wafting a hand dismissively. “Yeaaah, I know, I make ‘em irresistible.”

His eyes skipped from the meat to the salad, then to the pastel-yellow box. A pinch formed between his brows, and he reached to lift the lid between thumb and finger, peering underneath.

“Apologies,” Castiel said from the other side of the table. “Your friends were... rather enthusiastic.”

Dean caught Castiel’s eyes, and his demeanour changed; he stood taller, eyes wider, lips parted, chin tucked down. “Cas. Hi.”

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s lower lip bobbed. His breath caught, his lips twitching in what looked like a potential smile. “Y-Y-You, uh. You came. You never called, I thought— You. Brought. Cakes or something.”

“Cupcakes, yes. Orange twist with a marzipan and sherbet centre.”

“Huh.” Dean gulped. “Sound awesome.”

“They were my best.” Castiel smiled tensely. “They were for you. I realise I should’ve called, but I kept putting it off and then it went to voicemail so I hung up. I didn’t realise there’d be... so many people.”

“Big family,” Dean shrugged, fingertip slinging along his black t-shirt collar. “Well, extended family. Mostly friends. Family don’t end with blood, Bobby always says. I mean. Yeah. You’re kind of. Um. Kind of the odd one out here, huh.”

Castiel hugged himself. “Yes. I did notice.” He was the only one wearing white in a platoon of brown, black, and denim blue, for one thing.

There was a silence, and they stared at each other.

Castiel’s brain was suddenly very empty, too empty to figure out how to end the silence.

“Sorry,” he said, on autopilot.

“God, you’re so pretty,” Dean replied in a sigh.

Then Dean sucked in a breath and lowered his head. “I mean. I. Um. Scratch that off the record. Hhhhmmm. Out of fuel, clearly.” He grabbed a plate and started putting random things on it in a very illogical order. Corn under a steak under a wad of pasta under a tomato slice. He offered a fast grin and then stammered something incomprehensible, thumbing over his shoulder and backing away. And just like that, he was gone.

Castiel stayed by the food table, arms folded, offering flat smiles whenever anyone glanced his way.

After a number of minutes, and two songs he didn’t recognise, he heard a roar of excitement flare up from the pool table, pool cues shaken like spears above people’s heads. He craned closer, wanting to see, but didn’t want to push people to get into the huddle.

Amidst all the growling and yaps of affectionate banter, he heard Dean cry out, “Oh, come on, not _you_ again, Ellen. It’s my party, dammit. I gotta win at least once.”

“Dean, please,” Sam said fondly. “None of the rest of us want to get thrashed by you again. At least Ellen lets you puts up a good fight before wiping you out.”

After a laugh, the crowd groaned in dismay, but Dean impressed, “Look, I _feed_ you guys, I open my home to you, the least y’all could do is offer me a fair opponent. It’s not my fault you suck.”

Castiel took a breath, but let it go, shrinking back to the wall. Mariela told him he got too intense playing games, and that was no good. He wanted Dean to like him and opposing him in battle was not the way to achieve that.

“How ‘bout the new boy, honey?” came the warm, round voice of an older black woman, who’d seen him hesitate. “Ain’t nobody know what he’s capable of yet.”

Castiel shook his head as eyes turned his way. “Oh, no. No-no. I’ve never played pool. I don’t even know the rules.”

“What’s to know?” Charlie grinned, pushing people aside so Castiel had a straight run to the table, if he so wished. “You poke the stick at the white ball, try and hit the other colours into the pockets.”

“Actually—” Kevin said, but six people shushed him, so he amended, “Yeah-huh that’s totally and completely factually correct and not missing _any_ vital information,” before huffing in annoyance.

Dean stood by the table, his chin and nose glowing in the hanging lampshade’s brilliance, his eyes in shadow. He hummed, chin ticking up. “I’m up for it. Cas, you up for it?”

Castiel hemmed and hawed, fighting his immediate urge to say yes and storm over there. He tried to look away... but his heart leapt in longing, and he snorted. Damn Mariela trying to turn him into a respectable gentleman. One little game couldn’t hurt. He could control himself. Teeth gritted, he let his eyes rise to meet Dean’s across the smoky room. He unbuttoned one cuff, and started to roll up that sleeve.

The room filled with a building drone of “OoooooooOOOHHH...”

He rolled up his other sleeve.

“OOHHHHaaaaaahAAAAA—”

Castiel strode across the room and the crowd parted, clamoring. Dean’s grin was a perfect white crescent.

Someone handed Castiel a pool cue, and pats rained onto his back. The front door opened and the two old men came in, the black guy pushing the white guy in the wheelchair, both wanting to watch.

“You really never played?” Dean asked, rubbing something chalky on the end of his cue. “Naaaah. You’re hustlin’ me, huh.”

“No, I’ve really never played,” Castiel insisted. He looked at the cue, then handled it a few times, switching it between hands, then stretching it out to imagine himself hitting a ball with it. Not like golf, he imagined. More like fencing?

Sam collected up all the balls into a plastic triangle and centred them on the green felt, then removed the triangle brace and the balls stayed. Dean gave Castiel a kissy-face smile, then lowered himself down, resting on the edge of the table, cue stretched long, balanced on his fingers. Castiel examined his own fingers, figuring out which ones he should use.

Dean slipped the cue back and forth, measuring...

The room went silent, breaths held.

_Clak! Clock-clock-tick..._ Balls went in every direction, falling plop-plop-plop into the pockets at the corners and sides of the table.

Castiel raised his eyebrows. He readied his cue to try, but Dean was already prowling around the table, easing Castiel aside with a warm touch. “Still my go, bud.”

So Castiel watched Dean put away ball after ball, each move eliciting hisses and _oooooooooooh_ s out of his onlookers. Plop, plop... _plop_ , into the pockets.

Soon there was only the black ball left. Dean was careful with where he stood, placing himself, then uprooting and finding a better spot. He caught Castiel’s eye at one point, and blushed, quick to look down again.

One firm snap, and the black ball was swallowed down. Cheers filled the room and blotted out the pumping music.

“What about that one?” Castiel asked, seeing the white ball left alone on the green.

“That one always stays.” Dean collected all the balls and arranged them like Sam had. “Your round, church boy. Let’s say you empty the table in fewer hits than I did and, uh... I’ll owe ya. What was that, seven? Seven hits. Beat that and you’re golden.”

Castiel frowned at the table, calculating. Then he frowned at the pockets, considering. He let Ellen chalk up his cue tip, for whatever reason.

He tilted his head for a full minute, examining every angle of the table, eyes darting between pockets and envisioning the trajectories of the balls.

Then, after a cooling breath, he bent down like Dean had, and lined up his cue tip with the white ball. He held his breath, as did everyone else. Just as Castiel started to wiggle the cue, Dean coughed loudly, but Sam elbowed him, and Dean grinned.

Castiel summoned his concentration again, then...

Smack!

The white ball hit the others and none of them went anywhere Castiel was expecting. The balls rolled more heavily than he thought. The cue didn’t move like he wanted.

“Hm,” he said, as people mumbled happy condolences.

“One down,” Dean said, smirking. “C’mon, Cas. Eight balls, six pockets, six hits left. You wanna start over? I’ll go easy on you this time.”

Castiel scowled at him. “Over my dead body,” he growled, which for some reason made the room go wild. At first he thought his audience was offended, but then saw they were smiling, and Dean was grinning wider than any of them.

Castiel set the chaos out of his mind, and devoted himself to recalculation.

After some thought, he slipped off his shoes without unlacing them, and flung them under the table. Now with socked feet on the carpet, he was a half-inch shorter and had more control. Dean observed this, and arched his lip in a considerative shrug. Sam laughed quietly and patted his brother.

Castiel lay his cheek down on the green, one eye shut as he studied the arrangement of the balls.

The man in the wheelchair scoffed. “Either he’s playin’ you hard, Dean, or you got a complete nutjob on your hands.”

Dean relaxed amongst the laughter. “Honestly, Bobby? Ass like _that_ hung over the table, I don’t really care which.”

The gathered masses screamed in reaction, but Castiel lifted his torso, glaring at Dean hard enough that Dean gulped. “Stop trying to distract me,” Castiel rasped, lightning-hot inside. “I _will_ win.”

“Holy shit,” Charlie chirped, tugging on Dean’s shirt. “Holy shit holy _shit_. He’s a _firecracker_.”

Dean grinned and bit his lip, finger-combing his hair back. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Cas, you got this. Gimme your best shot, huh? Then we’ll, uh... see who’s better with a stick and balls.”

Castiel flicked his eyes to the ceiling. “Pathetic.” He bent, drew a breath, and snapped the tip to the white orb. Three balls hit the pockets – and ricocheted away, smacking all the rest along the way. Castiel stood back, frustrated – but tensed at the last second, seeing a red ball rolling towards an end pocket, moving painfully slow. He heard gasps all around, including his own...

Almost...

Aaaaaaalmost...

Plop!

The crowd cheered, hands up, beer bottles glowing in the light. Relief and satisfaction washed through Castiel’s form, chills running up his lower back.

“That was an accident,” Kevin pointed out.

“Yeah, but who cares,” Dean laughed, slinging his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “C’mon, he got _one_ in.”

Kevin complained, “This isn’t how pool works.”

“Heyyy, he’s new,” Dean said, winking at Castiel. “He gets the kiddie rules.”

Castiel snorted, incensed by that.

  
  


He found his way to the white ball again, and spent a minute adjusting his footing and hip placement and squinting furiously at the balls, willing them to go his way. He gritted his teeth, set his cue at the ready, and fired it – then wrenched back as balls paraded across the table, criss-crossing paths and bouncing off each other. Two balls went down, to Castiel’s grimly delighted surprise.

“Three hits more for a tie,” Dean said, through all the noise people made. “Just two more and you win. No hard feelings if you lose, Cas, seriously. Well—” He winked, mouth open. “Maybe one.”

Castiel seethed at Dean. Oh, he could do it. He could win. His hands knew how to move now; his brain could rotate the table and calculate without him needing to step. He thought in coloured balls against green; he’d be seeing these shapes as he lay in bed to sleep later. He ran theoretic simulations, watching where each ball went if he hit it like _this_ , or like _that_...

Deciding on a move, he aligned himself, his back to Dean...

He paused, looking back once, to make sure Dean was looking at his hands and not his ass. Dean wasn’t – but soon was. A little smile.

Castiel set his head down and _hit_.

Gasps flooded the room as _every last ball_ found a straight path towards a pocket. Some missed but bounced to another; some got lost until they hit another ball and were driven in mirrored lines towards their goals. To be fair, half of those pockets had felt like lucky shots, but Castiel sucked his tongue and looked sour about it, as if he’d aimed higher. There was still one ball left.

“Ohh, he’s hustling,” Jody said, shaking her head. “You got _played_ , Dean.”

“No...” Dean smiled softly at Castiel, dazzled. “No, I think he’s...”

“Trying way too hard to impress ya, that’s what,” Donna said, clicking her fingers.

“Really, _really_ smart,” Dean finished, breathless.

Castiel allowed a smile to break his mask, holding Dean’s eyes. “One more move,” he said quietly, calmly. “Think I can do it, Dean?”

Dean bit his lip. After a hesitation, he nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered.

Castiel inclined his head. “In which case... I have a... _favour_... already in mind for you.” He didn’t really. But he wanted to watch Dean squirm.

Dean blushed as his family yelled around him.

Castiel blocked out the noise, and set his cue down, getting ready to pocket that one last black ball.

He didn’t need to think about it. It had a straight run to the back left corner pocket. He aimed and hit.

The ball hit the green ledge and missed the pocket, zig-zagging all the way down the table. The crowd loomed, waiting to see a trick, waiting for it to hit an unexpected goal.

But it hit the nearest ledge, and... stopped.

Howls of disappointment and confusion filled the air, hands out and gesturing in open flabbergastment. Castiel just smiled to himself, and turned his eyes slyly to Dean.

Dean had wanted to _win_ a game of pool at his own party. So Castiel had provided.

So why did Dean look so crestfallen now?

Castiel didn’t understand.

“At least make it a draw,” Dean said hopefully, reaching to bat Castiel’s satin shirt with a knuckle, swiping down to the belt on his grey jeans. “C’mon. We’ll owe each other.”

Castiel cocked his head. He wound his way to the other side of the table, and chalked his cue, as if serious about this last move. He bent, and went still...

He looked up at Dean, who was nibbling his lower lip, fingers locked behind his head. His face was softly lit from below by light rebounding off the table, putting a gleam in his eyes. Did he want to win or didn’t he? He seemed to be acting like he wanted to lose. Why? Did he _want_ to owe Castiel a favour?

Castiel decided not to guess what he _imagined_ Dean wanted, and would instead obey what he’d said aloud. So Castiel pocketed the last ball without a thought, and stood back, indifferent to the cheers around him. He kept his eyes on Dean, gratified to see a grin crawl up that pretty freckled face.

But, one mere pat on the back, one breathy “Awesome game, man; catch up with you later,” and Dean was away again, drifting into the midst of his friends and family, accepting a gift Kevin’s mother gave him, then letting Bobby give him a pep talk, apparently about the fireplace (there was much gesturing), which clearly irritated Dean but kept him nodding anyway.

Castiel skulked back to his safe place by the food table, deciding to try some of the meat. He took salad, too, unwilling to give himself indigestion.

Even as the music rumbled underfoot and the chatter in the room shook the air, Castiel remained steady inside, not allowing himself to quake. Mariela would have been proud. He was no longer the furious, door-blasting, stampeding and arrogant youth she’d caught and tamed for his own good. He was calm. Gentle. He could lose a game, these days, and it wasn’t the same as failure. He hadn’t broken _anything_ , or thrown anyone against a wall.

Yet as he stood, giving his practised, pleasant smiles to everyone who came to say hello or tell him how impressive his game was, his eyes kept moving to Dean, watching him.

And Castiel began to quake.

Dean caught his eyes once or twice, and each time looked just as shaken.

Castiel hadn’t lost the game entirely, but hadn’t won either, which was basically failing. However, he didn’t feel like he’d failed _himself_. He felt like he’d failed Dean. Dean had expected something of him, and Castiel hadn’t delivered. Just like he did for everyone else in his life, he’d disappointed. And this was _after_ knowing Dean wanted things he wouldn’t admit he wanted, like cake. He said aloud he wanted to win but he really wanted to lose. Castiel had _known_ that about him and hadn’t factored that into his game. And Castiel couldn’t even save him a damn cake, either!

Failure.

No wonder Dean looked away when their eyes met. No wonder he looked sad.

The spell had worn off between them.

  
♥  


Dean swallowed, trying to smile as Rowena rabbited on about how this cabin was _so_ like the place she’d had in Scotland, way-way-way back when.

Dean’s eyes kept drifting, always finding their way to Castiel.

For a guy who’d so loved to stare before, Cas sure had a lot to look at now, eyes darting anywhere but at Dean. And no wonder. A guy like that? A guy who could march up to a pool table, never having handled a stick before, and potentially down the lot in six moves, in order, without dropping the white? Cas could’ve been working for NASA with the right connections. He could be about to pioneer some unknown miracle that would take the world by storm. And here he was, in a crappy old shack in semi-rural Texas, bringing little vegan cupcakes and calling Dean pathetic.

And he was. Oh, he was. Next to _him_.

Dean swallowed and returned his attention to his redheaded neighbour, not for the first time thinking that she kind of looked like a witch.

If only she was. Maybe she could bring the magic back, re-ignite the spark that had fired between Dean and Castiel before. Because it was gone now. Dean had felt it splutter out and die the moment he realised Cas was lightyears out of his league.

  
♥  



	4. Smoking Out the Truth

As a rule, Castiel would always be the first person to leave any social gathering. Yet tonight the rule was already broken; people had arrived and left whenever they pleased, and Castiel hardly noticed the slow dispersal of strangers. For a good amount of time he entertained himself by examining Dean’s bookshelf, finding a lot of pulp sci-fi; Orwell, Vonnegut, Bradbury; TV tie-in novels for some medical drama Castiel had been meaning to watch for years; three different editions of _The Lord of the Rings_ in varying states of dog-earedness; and a quiet collection of raunchy romances featuring supernatural creatures. Dean seemed especially taken by the beasts with wings, if the six book covers featuring bird-winged humanoids meant anything at all.

Distracted by a pitch change in the previously-thumping music bassline, Castiel looked up, looked around, and was startled to see the room almost empty. There was trash on the floor and beer bottles everywhere. Sam was over by the bathroom door with Bobby, helping him get his feet into the stirrups on his wheelchair.

Castiel put back the book he’d been pawing through, then paced forward in a tiny panic, unsure whether it would be rude to run away now, when the place was such a mess. It wasn’t just that Mariela taught him better; he had his own set of manners and saddling the host with a room full of garbage after Dean went to so much trouble was, frankly, unthinkable.

So, after providing a smile for Sam as Sam waved, then shouted, “BYE, DEAN, WE’RE GOIIING,” Castiel started collecting bottles and lining them up on the edge of the pool table.

Night air washed cool across the carpet, making his socked feet tingle. Napkins drifted, and Castiel swept low to pick one up, then another. He lost himself for a minute or two in the repetition of his task.

Castiel heard a toilet flush, and then some pipes complained inside the walls. A moment later Charlie came out into the living room, patting her hair down, looking about and fretting. “Urgh, the mess,” she murmured.

“Don’t worry,” Castiel said to her. “I’ve got it.”

“Okay, good,” Charlie said with a sigh. “I gotta drive Bobby back, and Sam’s gotta go pick up his meds before the pharmacy closes. We’ll be back in about an hour – you really okay sticking around?”

Castiel nodded. “Drive safe.”

Charlie grinned. “Good luck with Dean.”

Castiel’s heart leapt, then plummeted. He tried to smile, but his face fell as Charlie turned away and left, leaving the door unlocked. The only good thing he could imagine coming of staying late was that he might get the chance to apologise for letting Dean down. Maybe Castiel could explain why he had so much trouble knowing what people wanted of him. Maybe Dean could forgive him for being so variable in mood tonight, adventurous one moment and a wallflower the next. But Dean wouldn’t understand how it was all just a snapshot amidst a lifetime of getting things wrong and screwing up.

Perhaps, Castiel decided, as he found a trash can in the kitchen and filled it all at once, it would be best if Dean never again had to meet the person Castiel tried so hard not to be. That person had riled up the crowd but made Dean look ever so sombre after their game of pool. Being that person left Castiel feeling strong and _fiery_ , but the grip of guilt followed not long after.

That person wasn’t who Dean wanted. It wasn’t who Castiel was trying to become.

Dean wanted the sweater-wearing, church-attending angel, who baked rainbow cupcakes, saved him $6 desserts and ‘weird juice’, and tidied up his living room.

  
♥  


Dean sealed the lid on his last tupperware with a satisfying _popa-dop-pup_ , and slid it onto the middle shelf of his fridge. He turned towards his wooden counter, ready to start washing up the stacks and stacks of plates, only to realise in dismay that there was another tray of lamb kebabs that he’d completely forgotten to skewer and serve. Somehow he’d speared and served the bell peppers with onions and button mushrooms, and _had_ actually wondered why the skewers looked a little empty, but he’d had to cook the lamb separately – so of course _this_ happened. Here they still were. Left over.

With a sigh he rummaged in his cupboard for another box, but there were none left. Still at Sam’s place. Dammit. Dean knew he should’ve had the party after he’d _properly_ moved in.

Dean trudged out into the living room, looking to see if there were any dirty plates he’d missed. He discovered only a pastel-yellow tupperware left on the table, and rushed to grab it, glad to see it was just the right size for the kebab pieces.

“Oh, that’s mine,” said a voice. “I’ve been tidying, I didn’t get to that yet.”

Dean glanced over, and felt a thrill as he met the crystalline-blue eyes of Castiel. “You’re still here,” Dean said in surprise.

“Yes,” Castiel said. “Sorry. Do you want me to leave now?”

“Oh— No-no, dude, it’s fine. That came out wrong.” Dean grinned. “Look, uh... you wouldn’t mind me borrowing this, would you? I got some leftover meat I gotta store and nothin’ to pack it into.”

Castiel’s mouth slid open. “Would I get it back? That would rather imply we’d see each other again.”

Dean huffed a tiny laugh. “You’ll get it back,” he promised.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah? C’mon, I’m a chef, I don’t steal people’s kitchen stuff. I know how much that pisses me off.”

“No, I mean— Are you certain you want me...”

“Would I wanna see you again? Ah. Ha. Let me think. Uh. _Yea-hah_ , Cas.” Dean grinned. Cas was smarter than Dean could ever hope to be, which just made Dean want to hang around him more. Maybe he could teach Dean a thing or two.

Castiel seemed flustered, but pleased. His tidy wave of hair had all come out of place somehow, and the touch of ruffled inelegance on such a poised figure just made him more handsome. Dean gave a longing sigh, then cleared his throat to cover the noise.

Heading to the kitchen, Dean glanced back over his shoulder as he sensed a presence following him. Castiel looked around at the mustard-clay walls and the tiles behind the stove with roosters on them, then the beams arching over the ceiling, pillars cornering the wooden-topped island, making up a galley kitchen that backed up onto a set of doors: one to Dean’s bedroom, one to the towel cupboard with the water tank, one to the tiny back porch, which was naught but a dark rectangle through the door’s glass, hidden behind a swept-aside plaid curtain.

“Congratulations on your new house,” Castiel said. “Are you renting or—?”

“Bought it,” Dean said proudly, putting down the tupperware, taking out the icing-smudged paper towel and tossing it aside. He rinsed the box in the sink, adding, “I mean, got a mortgage. But it’s mine and Sammy’s name on the deed. _Smokin’ Shotgun_ never did so well when I was growin’ up – we had an actual store, and kept having to downsize ‘cause of sliding profits. But after Dad kicked the bucket, me n’ Sammy finally started up the catering truck with Charlie like I always wanted, and we made it big in, like, six years. Austinites loooove their barbecue. Turns out when you got major competition like we do, best chance of survival is makin’ sure our barbecue can go where the action is. Kind of a surprise where we’d pop up next, right? Events and parties and public parks and whatever. Got folks who make a hobby outta hunting us down every weekend.”

“That sounds exciting,” Castiel said.

“You think?” Dean chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it kind of is.”

“The success I’ve had with my after-school math program really only affords me the luxury of dinner and rent,” Castiel admitted, hugging himself. “Profits are growing fast. But I’ve bought nothing as special as a house.”

“Eh. Keep at it,” Dean said, wiping the tupperware out with a dishcloth. “Seriously. Passion can get you everywhere in life, if you stick to it. Skill follows passion, and if you’re good people take notice. And good friends, you need those. Wouldn’t be anywhere without my crew. You met ‘em all, right? What d’ya think?”

“Oh. They were... nice.”

“Nice? Christ, Cas, they were animals. You see what they did to my living room?”

“Yes, actually; I _cleaned_ it.”

Dean looked up at Cas, then threw his head back laughing.

After a moment, Castiel allowed himself a shy smile. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to sound rude.”

Dean gave Castiel a slow look and a sideways grin. “Wasn’t rude. Was honest. Thanks for that, by the way. The cleaning.”

“Oh, it was no trouble,” Castiel said quietly. Too politely.

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, right,” he snarked. “Dude, you brought me cakes and those trashbags ate ‘em all before I got to try _one_. How long did they take you to make, huh?”

Castiel rolled a shoulder. “Really doesn’t matter.”

“How long?”

Castiel parted his lips. “Three hours.”

“Three hours. Then you stick around and pick up garbage. And you don’t even get your tupperware back.”

A wry smile ticked up Castiel’s lips. “Now you mention it, I am mildly irritated.”

Dean clicked a cheek to his teeth affirmingly. “Least I can do is send you home with somethin’ to eat. What d’ya want? I got non-battered onion rings, I got leftover salad? I made loads. Or there’s these kebabs.” He showed Castiel the full tray, not yet tipping the meat into the box. “It’s everything free. Just grilled meat basted in garlic olive oil. Cooked on foil so it’s not contaminated or whatever.”

Castiel shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to deprive you.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Aw, fuck that, dude. I’m not starving. The moment Sam’s outta the house all I wanna eat is _salad_. You want this stuff or not?”

Castiel scratched the back of his neck, trying not to smile. “I suppose if I... tossed it with some rice and some... hm, pesto, olives—”

“ _Pesto_.” Mouth slowly opening, Dean stood holding the tray and a fork, waiting for a proper answer. “So is that a yes?”

“Hmmm. Alright.”

“Whatever you said sounds great but trust me,” Dean said, shaking his head and herding blobs of meat into the box, “you don’t wanna ruin this with _pesto_. Cream cheese in a grilled sandwich, piles of lettuce, some strings of red onion? Fine. But not pesto. Olives, _God_ no. You’re crazy.”

“I have a refined palate,” Castiel retorted. “I know what I want.”

“Yeah, you want your flavour overpowered!” Dean crumpled up the foil and tossed the fork in the overfull sink. “If you’re cookin’ your food just to cover the flavour of the ingredients you’re using, you’re buyin’ the wrong stuff. The sauce is meant to complement the meat, not drown it.”

“I’m autistic, everything’s overwhelming to me. My senses process more acutely than yours. If everything tasted of peanut butter and jelly, and had the texture of crispy fresh fries, I’d be happy.”

“And rice and pesto is like that? Sweet-savoury and crunchy?”

“Almost, yes. It’s bearable. I’d burn it a bit.”

“Bearable. _Bear_ able.” Dean was inflamed by the word. “ _Bearable_?”

Castiel snorted. He snatched up his tupperware, glaring at Dean. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. _Meat Man_. You think charcoal is a flavouring.”

Dean chuckled. “Okay. Fair.” He licked his lips, then reached over to paw at Castiel’s arm. “So all the stuff I’ve been feeding you. That... doesn’t work for you?”

Castiel drew a breath, eyes wandering. “It was... nice. But after one rib and one steak I think I got the idea. You put your sauce on it. You cook it. It all tastes the same. Not that I don’t like that! I like knowing what to expect.”

Dean grimaced. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Oh, _don’t_ I?”

There was chagrin aplenty in Castiel’s eyes, and Dean felt a spark of challenge rise up through him, finally seeing the man he’d played pool with. As a grin spread, his posture emboldened, and he gave a fierce up-nod.

“How long you got before your bedtime, church boy?”

“Pardon?”

“Can you spare a half-hour? I’d take ya. You and me, right here. We split the kebabs fifty-fifty and cook what we want, _then_ we decide who’s right.”

Perplexed, Castiel lowered the tupperware back to the counter. “You want to fight me? At... cooking.”

“It’s called a cook-off, Cas.”

Castiel blinked. “Oh. Um.” He checked his watch. “It’s past eleven now, and it’ll take me twenty-five minutes to get home...”

Dean bit his lip, hiding the fact he’d been kidding about the bedtime. Cas seemed very practical about his trash-talk all of a sudden.

He looked up, and said, firmly, “I’ll sleep in tomorrow.”

Dean batted him on the arm. “Awesome. Now.” He spun on his heels, forefingers pointing up, ready to get his sandwich press, but spied the piles of plates and pans in the sink, and slumped. “Aahhhh... Crap.”

Castiel shared his dismay, but quickly bolstered his expression into pure determination. “You do the washing, I’ll do the drying. It’ll be done before we know it.”

“Aw, shit, Cas, you don’t gotta—”

Castiel gripped Dean’s forearm, looked him in the eyes, and growled, “I am not going home without proving you wrong. Stop acting like you’re inconveniencing me. If I didn’t want to be here, Dean, believe me, I would _not_ be.”

Dean felt a flicker of a smile dart all the way through his body as Castiel went to the sink and washed his hands.

Dean started by rinsing everything, and Castiel merely stood by, watching.

“The music,” Castiel said dazedly, keeping an ear out as he listened to the song drifting in from the living room. “You know, it’s familiar, but... I can’t quite place it.”

Dean listened, then huffed in embarrassment. “Oh, God, don’t listen to that. My party playlist ended.”

“ _Heaven abooove,_ ” Castiel sang, faintly, out of time with the lyrics, just enough that Dean knew he was remembering the song from years ago. “ _Counting the days ‘til I know you..._ ” Dean hung his head, scrubbing frantically at a dish in the hope that the sloshing sound would eclipse the song. But Castiel knew the next lines even without hearing. “ _Don’t wanna die but I still feel you... calling..._ ”

Dean blushed.

Castiel’s eyes moved to stare at the side of Dean’s head. “That was all they played on the radio when I was in community college. What was the band...? Uhmm. Team-something? Team Third Wheel—”

“Team Free Will,” Dean corrected by accident, then tried to swallow his tongue.

“That...” Castiel tilted his head. “That’s your band, isn’t it? From when you were a rockstar.”

Dean huffed. “Nope.”

“It is. That’s your voice. It’s lighter and younger, but Dean, that’s—” Castiel was getting excited, stepping from foot to foot beside Dean. He took the first clean plate and dried it with a clean towel without looking. “Dean – you and Charlie, you were the band. You’re famous.”

“ _Were_ famous,” Dean said. “And that’s kind of an overexaggeration, wouldn’t ya say? They played three of our twenty songs to death in a ten-mile radius. Forty people bought our album, which we burned, like, two-hundred copies of on Sam’s laptop. Bet you’ve never even _heard_ of _Army Man in the Car Door_.”

Castiel’s smile was small but genuine. “Can’t say I have.”

“Well, it’s up next.” Dean shook his head in embarrassment. “God, we sucked.”

“No?” Castiel started stacking dried dishes. “Your voice is...” He paused to listen. “Smooth. And— Yes! That part? That part where it goes rough and scratchy, I love that. It gives me tingles up the back of my neck.”

Dean flicked a flattered glance Castiel’s way. “Guess that’s somethin’. Coming from my in-kitchen pride parade.”

Castiel looked behind him, then back at Dean, apparently confused because he didn’t see a pride parade in the kitchen. Then he realised, “Oh, you mean me.”

“Yeah, Cas, I mean you.” Dean grinned. He paused, considering Castiel closely, still smiling. “Are you... actually like this? Or are you just messing with me?”

“What do you mean, ‘like this’? You mean autistic?”

Dean let a breathy laugh fall from his lips. “Okay. That’s answer enough. Good to know. You take things super literally. And you never answer questions properly the first time I ask. Guess that’s a thing.”

Castiel seemed to comprehend that statement after a moment, so didn’t pry further. He dried dishes and stacked them, and once handed Dean a dish back because Dean hadn’t rinsed the suds off properly. And he listened, quietly, head bobbing to the music. They came to _Army Man in the Car Door_ , and Dean felt himself burning, hearing lyrics he’d loved to forget he ever wrote.

_Daddy told me I shu’n’t fight with girls no more,_   
_So I go pickin’ all my fights with boys._   
_Daddy told me it ain’t natural..._   
_But one hit and it’s all white noise— Ow!_

_He raised me soldier, soldier, soldier_   
_But I never cried on ma Daddy’s shoulder._   
_He knocked back hard so I fought harder;_   
_I won’t call an army man my father._

“There’s this... little plastic army figurine,” Dean said, as the chorus repeated and faded out. “Stuffed in the ashtray in the back door of my car. Chevy Impala, nineteen-sixty-seven. She’s my baby. She was Dad’s first. But, uh. Couldn’t get that thing out, the army man. Trapped in there since I was a kid.”

“And the army toy is a metaphor for yourself as a child and teenager, a small plaything with an identity forced upon you, engulfed by the domineering bulk of your father’s will and overly-demanding military expectations.”

Dean was stung by vulnerability more quickly and deeply than he’d braced for.

“The car was your father’s, thus represents him. The toy was yours. You felt trapped.”

Dean stared for a moment, then lowered his eyes to the gushing water, quickly rinsing the pan he held. “I was just telling you where the title came from, but... yeah. Yeah, I guess. God, you’re... Wow.” He was shaken by that level of intuition.

“I became homeless when I was sixteen,” Castiel said. “Robbed stores and lived in the storage basement of a church to avoid the cops, until Mariela found me and took me in. I didn’t write any songs about it, though.”

Dean put on a gentle smile, nodding as he scrubbed a tangle of forks. “Had to suck.”

“Hm. I was on an adventure. I’d say it was fun, but...” Castiel’s breath shook, and Dean glanced up in time to see his eyes flood with tears. “It was the hardest part of my life. Harder than what came before, everything I ran away from. I wished so badly I could undo my mistake, but by then it was too late.”

Dean dared not ask about why he ran away. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m grateful,” Castiel said. “God gave me a path and every mistaken stumble made me more careful about where I step now. I wouldn’t be so steady on my feet without the stubbed toes, so to speak.”

Dean let out a tiny amused breath. “Guess that’s one way to look at it. There is a song in there, I hear it already.”

“How would you look at it? Your situation.”

“Sucked before, but I kept on fighting to make it suck less now. For me _and_ Sam, and Mom.”

Castiel hummed. “Personally I’d say God gave you the strength to keep fighting.”

“Pff. My _dad_ gave me the strength. And he wasn’t God. Far from it.”

Castiel eyed him warily. “Do you believe in anything?”

Dean smirked. “Call me a unicorn poopin’ out rainbows, Cas, but I believe in myself.” He caught Castiel’s gaze and held it, shy but sparkling. “And I believe in my brother, and Charlie, and my mom, and all the family you met tonight. They tear through the place like locusts but they’re anything but a plague on my household, y’know? Everything I do, I do for them. Family, man. Bobby’s right. Family don’t end with blood. I love ‘em more than anything.”

Castiel nodded, understanding. “Mariela helped me a lot.”

“Yeah?”

“I said I was autistic? Well... I.” Castiel drew a breath, preparing himself to say something difficult. “I, um. It used to be... harder. To exist. Before I learned how to pray and calm myself, _years_ before I began avoiding inflammatory foods and anything in the ingredient list that’s a number and not a word I already know. My family weren’t like me, they didn’t— They didn’t make the kind of allowances you’ve been making for me.”

“Huh? What’ve I done?”

“Listened when I speak, for one,” Castiel admitted, head down. “Asked if the food you’ve cooked is something I could actually eat. And you put the flag up at the fair to keep the smoke away. It didn’t do much, but at least you tried _and_ made a difference, Dean. You didn’t write me off as being ‘difficult’ or ‘annoying’ or ‘needy’. or assume I’m just trying to make your life harder.”

Dean pff’d. “I mean, I did at first.”

“Then you stopped.”

Dean shrugged. “Didn’t even think about it. Are you— Wait, seriously, who _hasn’t_ been listening to you? You’re obviously smart, and interesting, and, let’s face it, not exactly hard on the eyes. Is it a confidence thing? ‘Cause you keep apologising, I noticed. Who’re you saying sorry to? It’s not like you did anything wrong.”

Castiel hung up the damp towel, shaking his head. “In my experience I do everything wrong. Especially when I talk to people.”

“People who aren’t listening.”

“Well. I suppose. But my ‘people skills’ _are_ ‘rusty’.” He didn’t understand air quotes, clearly. It was beyond endearing.

Dean mopped his hands on the dishtowel, which still left him damp, but he was able to put his hand on Castiel’s back without leaving a handprint on the ivory satin. “You need new friends, Cas,” he said.

Castiel met his gaze, eyes gleaming.

“Believe me,” Dean said, “you’re not the problem.”

For a long while, Castiel stared, looking at each of Dean’s eyes in turn. Damn, he looked like he’d never heard anyone say something like that before. His confusion turned to gratitude, then... after a few moments, awe.

Dean sucked on his lower lip, thinking. “S-So, um. Cas. That ‘gluten’ thing. If I grilled a sandwich with the meat in it, could you even eat it? Gluten’s in bread, right? Food glue.”

“Unfortunately, no, I couldn’t eat it.” Castiel smiled gently. “And yes, it is in regular bread.”

“Right. Don’t wanna accidentally kill you.”

“Oh. Some people are that allergic, yes, but personally, no, I just avoid it. Eating it makes me irritable, and gives me brain fog and depression for days. I used to have meltdowns – um, physical, emotional outbursts? – almost daily but now... hm, once a month or less. And I’m better at calming down.”

“So I gotta make a sandwich outta something other than bread.”

“Correct. And not that I intend to make it harder for you, but your sandwich press would just squash all the gluten from previous sandwiches back onto it.”

“I can wash the press? It’s the one non-kosher thing in here ‘cause I do meat and cheese together.”

“Hm. Gluten sticks firmly, especially in little crevices and textures. I only use metal utensils when cooking for _Sunday’s Child_ ; wood and plastic absorbs the contaminants. Non-stick pans... not good unless they’re brand new.”

Dean palmed his forehead. “Hrrrgh. Okay. I got metal. Stainless steel pans, smooth bases. I’ll double-wash.” He went to his pantry, opened the doors, and stared in. “You wanted rice, right? Bag of brown rice down there by my boot. It’s Sam’s but he’s not even gonna live here ‘cause he moved in with Jess. Hmmmm.”

Soon he felt Castiel staring at him, so glanced over.

“You don’t have to do this, Dean,” Castiel said. “Just make a sandwich for yourself.”

“The point is I’m makin’ it for you,” Dean said. “I wanna get you to taste something crunchy and savoury-sweet that still lets the natural flavours come through. I just gotta figure out what to use instead of bread. I don’t have all your fancy vegan ingredients. Just potatoes, ketchup, spices, and canned stuff.”

Castiel ruffled his shirt collar, undoing it by a single button. He was suddenly ten times more attractive, and ten times more ready for a fight. “Latkes,” he said.

Dean’s lips rounded. “What?”

“Jewish potato pancakes! You keep your kitchen kosher yet you’ve never heard of latkes?!”

“Oh, those. Hey, I’ve heard of ‘em, just never made ‘em. Wouldn’t know how. I could look it up if—”

“For goodness’ sake. It’s simple. Grate a couple of potatoes, and half a small onion. Dry with a kitchen towel. Blend up some rice to make rice flour. Bind with gelatin or applesauce – or egg, but I don’t eat egg. Mix. Sautée in patties until crisp.” Castiel bent past Dean’s thighs and dragged out the bag of brown rice. “You can treat latkes like bread, I can eat them, and they’ll add a crunch if you do them right.”

“Potato pancakes,” Dean said, thoughtfully. He arched his lips in acceptance, and reached for the potato sack.

  
♥  



	5. Straight-Up Smokin’

Frying pan down. Stove on, blazing fire up the curved black sides. Oil sloshed in, cold, tipped to reach the edges.

Cooking pot down beside it. One level cupful of brown rice, steady, steady... Five hundred grains fell into the pot, hissing and tapping the base.

Castiel took the pot to the sink and turned on the faucet, half-filling the pot. But Dean realised a moment later he wasn’t adding water, but washing the rice.

“The hell are you doin’?” Dean laughed. “Dude.”

“I want the starch gone, it’s better without.”

Dean threw up a hand then returned to peeling his potatoes, spinning the lump fast with a blade opposite his thumbpad, taking off a long, pale coil and letting it drop to the bowl below.

Castiel drained the water from his cooking pot with a hand holding the rice back, then reached for the empty cup and very carefully filled it with water to the shivering rim, dropping each in: one, two, three, four, five, six.

He put the rice pot down next to Dean’s still-cold pan, and started up the flame below. He bent to figure out the oven timer, bleeping its buttons.

“What’s the timer for?” Dean asked.

Castiel looked at him like he’d said something peculiar. “I need to know when the rice is done.”

Dean grinned, shaking his head. “I just guess. It’s done when it smells right, when it feels right.”

“I’d rather not leave it to chance.”

“Did I say anythin’ about chance? I know food like the back of my hand. Better, even. Can’t keep track of all these damn freckles.” He showed Castiel the back of his hand, laughing when Castiel paused for a moment to examine it.

“Cas? C’mere.” Dean batted Castiel’s side, taking him to the pantry and handing him a fresh black apron. “Don’t wanna ruin your pretty shirt. You and your _pesto_. Kitchens and satin don’t go, know _that_ one from experience. Don’t ask.”

Dean put on his own apron, the one with _Smokin’ Shotgun_ ’s ghostly flame logo front and centre. He and Castiel headed back to the stove.

“You know what this is?” Dean said, as he began grating the first of his potatoes into a mixing bowl. “This is a hash brown. You’re having me make hash browns. This is gonna be a hash brown sandwich.”

Castiel set his back to Dean, slicing and dicing tomatoes with expert swiftness and a limber wrist. “If it’s not the best sandwich I’ve ever tasted I’ll be disappointed.”

“Just you wait, buddy,” Dean said, elbowing Castiel gently as they pressed close to each other’s heat, back to back. “I’m gonna ruin you for other food.”

Dean hoped he wasn’t all talk. He had his work cut out for him. Not only did he have to make everything from scratch but he wanted Castiel to fall _apart_ the moment he got a taste of what Dean made. Dean had competed before but never with the stakes so high.

Dean watched Castiel in intrigue. “What are you doin’ with all those tomatoes, anyhow?”

“Making pesto.”

“ _Red_ pesto? Oh, _man_. I thought you meant green pesto. Like, _normal_ pesto.”

“No.”

“Clearly.” To himself, Dean thought, hey, red pesto might actually work.

He proceeded with his own recipe. Half-onion chopped, four potatoes grated, dried and pressed between kitchen towels. Powder gelatin thrown in... Plus a little extra for luck.

“You don’t measure?” Castiel realised. “You don’t measure anything.”

“Looks right,” Dean shrugged. “Texture’s fine. It’s mixing. There’s enough moisture that the gelatin’s doing its thing.”

Castiel shook his head, aghast.

Dean sneered at him. “Focus on your _own_ chow, Judgy McJudgerson.”

Castiel would’ve used up every damn tomato on the premises unless Dean had snatched up the last one to save it. The smack of knives hitting chopping boards outpaced the thump of the music. Dean watched: Castiel let his knife tip skim the board, moving fast, fingers darting back whenever he came close to slicing himself. One clove of garlic, two basil leaves from the windowsill herb planter, all the parmesan cheese left in Dean’s fridge. He left out the pine nuts, explaining that they didn’t agree with him.

Castiel washed his blender cup more carefully than anyone probably ever had, and then finished off by rinsing it with boiling water from the kettle. Once dry, Dean had to borrow it first to make himself some rice flour.

The grating howls of the blender drowned out the music for a while: blaring, grumbling, and then pulsing in slushy squelches until Castiel had his pesto.

Now done with his mixture and well into the cooking, Dean flipped his first latke and let the oil sizzle around it. Pleased by the browning on his bread-sized patty of potato and onion, he flipped the other three, planning to take whichever two came out best and use them as the outside of the sandwich.

The next song came on, pounding in from the next room. The beat was heavy and rough, a little dirty and off-kilter. It built and built to a shaken, devastated gasp, and then a younger Dean keened, “ _Hit me!_ ”

Dean laughed, head down. “Ahhh, shit.”

“I loved this one,” Castiel admitted, blue eyes cast softly towards Dean. “Call it an awakening of sorts. A lot of late nights studying, I heard it a lot.”

The bass roamed, hungry, heartbeats under the wooden floor. Dean found himself nodding his head to the beat despite himself, hearing Castiel tap his spoon on the counter’s edge. They looked back at each other – and laughed, Dean embarrassed, Castiel enthused.

Dean hid his face in his hands, hearing himself moan from the other room.

“You’re shy,” Castiel murmured, a laugh in his voice. “I can’t believe you’re shy when you made a song like this.”

“I didn’t realise anyone would hear it,” Dean rasped, letting Castiel softly take his elbows and lower his hands so Castiel could see his expression. “It was just me and Charlie, it was just us messin’ around. This was gonna be the one they never played on air. Student pirate radio, man – it ruined everything.”

Castiel laughed, eyes shut, head turned away slightly. Dean chuckled to himself, feeling the heat in his cheeks sear hotter, falling lower in his belly. He let himself move, let his hips sway, lip bitten.

With a kick of energy, Dean let the beast take over, and stepped back, hands up, stepping side-to-side with a bounce, head down, swishing slightly. Boots came off, toed into a corner, tumbling. Socked feet on the wooden floor, he slid, slipping up to Cas, catching his eyes and grinning.

Castiel suddenly had a flush in his cheeks. Dean took the other man’s hips, dancing in up-nods and forward steps, sideways and backwards steps, taking Cas with him half the time. Castiel remained stiff, but watched Dean dance with dark eyes, curious and reticent at once.

“Relax,” Dean whispered, eyes on Castiel’s lips. “Just let go, man. Nobody’s looking.”

“What is there to let go of?” Castiel asked, his voice deep and soft, close to a hum. “What— What do you want from me, Dean?”

Dean shook his head. “Nothin’! Nothing,” he promised. “Just dance. Have some fun.”

Castiel stood unmoving still, so Dean let him go and rose up, inner biceps by his ears, eyes closed as he shifted to the music, peeking out to see Cas watching his hips, watching his feet, then his eyes.

Cas clung to the counter like it was all he had left to keep him upright. He was scared, Dean realised. Had he never danced? Mussed hair, socked feet, and an unbuttoned collar did not a dancer make, but Dean could help him do better.

He reached out and untucked Castiel shirt for him, past the apron. Ivory satin was sleek in his hand, and flopped down nicely – yet was still hidden. Dean took off his own apron, tossing it over Sam’s barstool at the end of the island. He snuck closer, but Castiel didn’t move.

With a little more eyeshine from Dean and the cajoling pulls of pawing hands, Cas loosened up a bit, and started to smile. With a roll of his eyes, he finally let Dean sway him – and then the _spark_ fired. Cas’ demeanour strengthened with a chin-lift and Dean saw the mask fall away. There he was again: the scary-smart pool shark, the snarky little bastard who wanted to take Dean down a peg or two and wouldn’t take any of his bullshit, the one who could smile through a sneer and push Dean back two steps and shove him against the stove-side counter and make Dean feel like they were dancing.

Dean knew this was the real Cas. True enough, the guy who made darling little gluten free cakes was the real Cas too, and the shy buttoned-up satin-wearing church boy, that was him just as rightly. But _this_ was the creature who lay tethered underneath. Cas was afraid to let him loose, but Dean wasn’t afraid of seeing the truth laid bare. There was a darkness in this man, the kind of livid tenderness that Dean could fall for all too easily.

So he let himself be pushed, and he pushed in return, breathing like he wanted to bite Cas. Maybe he did. Maybe Cas growled like he was going to bite back if Dean tried.

Dean ruffled Castiel’s hair and made Castiel yip, looking at Dean in innocent surprise. He lunged for Dean, laughing, and Dean giggled and shot out of the way, skidding down the kitchen aisle in his socks. He darted this way and that, out of the way of Castiel’s grabbing hands, both of them quickly out of breath – not from exertion but excitement.

The song pulsed on around them, being the third-longest on the album. There were few lyrics, as it mostly comprised of breaths and lip-bite moans, with, on occasion, the hint of a wolflike melody under an oaken drone of pleasure. One whisper of “ _Hell yeeeeah_ ” tickled the edge of Dean’s ears, just as he found himself shoved with his back to a raw wood pillar, nose touching and untouching Castiel’s. Lips eased close, grins shattered around trembled breaths.

Castiel didn’t seem eager to linger; he stepped back with a playful grin, and without dipping his eyes away from Dean’s, ducked his head and wrenched off his apron. He spun it around a finger, just off the beat, hips cocking to it, then dropped his apron atop Dean’s discarded own. He looked ready to pounce.

Dean moved before Cas could get him, wanting more of a tease. He shimmied away backwards, hips swaying side-to-side, lip bitten, eyes and belly ablaze.

Cas followed him, followed him right up to the island’s side once more, where Dean took hold of the edge and started to work his crotch forwards, grinding against Castiel. Castiel seemed taken aback, looking down at the stuttering contact in perplexion.

“Mm, you not into that?” Dean asked warmly. “How ‘bout this?”

He jumped to plop his ass onto the clean part of the counter, legs open, hands supporting himself from behind. He kept on squirming, lips parted, giving Cas his best wordless invitation. Cocked head, wet lips, slipping his weight back and forth on the wood. Yet Cas didn’t seem to get what to do.

“Thighs,” Dean said. He offered an open hand, and Castiel took it. “Here.” He put Cas’ hand on his thigh, made him stroke. “Ohh, yeah, you’re a _natural_.”

“You’re teasing me,” Castiel said with a dip of his head – but no annoyance, just awareness.

“No shit,” Dean breathed, laughing as his eyes darted low. “If you like that, Cas—? You’re gonna love this. Mmn.” He kept on beaming, teeth digging into his lip as he twisted around and crawled onto his island counter, prowling animal-like until his socks were up there too. He gave a little shimmy, chest down, letting his t-shirt ruck up and expose his lower back.

Castiel looked absolutely stunned by the display, but wasn’t shy about looking. He stared openly as Dean got into a kneel, leaned back and pistoned his hips, hands behind his head, body snapping to the beat.

It wasn’t like he hated this song. He’d channelled a young man’s sensuality into every quiver and shake and bassline swoop; it was a song not of lust for another person, but self-love. Not many people knew that. What Dean hated was what it did to him when he heard it. To listen to it usually, he had to be drunk, desperate, or both. It took him places he didn’t always want to go.

But he didn’t hate this.

Kinda... loved it, actually.

If a guy like Cas could be audacious, Dean could be shameless. Cloaks had been divested, aprons removed, buttons unbuttoned – and performative shields were discarded for the sake of trust and desire. Nothing held either of them back now. A succulent yet ravenous passion had driven into them and submerged hearts in flame in mere seconds, and Dean launched himself to his feet atop the kitchen counter, playing out a twisted sting on his air guitar, bowed knees bent, watching Castiel shake and turn away in laughter, then come back, enamoured. His eyes shone gorgeously. Cas held the flushed sides his own neck, then his hair, ruffling it beyond belief. There was no church boy left in him at this moment. Not judging by the way he looked at Dean.

Castiel beckoned to Dean, and Dean walked to the edge of the counter, then got down in a crooked crouch, taken into Castiel arms and pulled back down to solid ground. At last Castiel danced with him – or more accurately, danced _at_ him. Pushing his hips, exploring how they felt thick together, strong together, struck hot by the intimacy of meeting eyes. Little breaths shivering over lips...

The whiff of burning food snapped Dean’s attention away – and he yelled in alarm, fleeing Cas’ body heat and rushing for his steel pan, grabbing his silver spatula and lifting one, two, three patties off the dry-burning pan and its wisps of smoke. “Plate!” he shouted. “Plate, I need a plate—”

Castiel took one from the drying rack and shoved it under Dean’s spatula, letting him drop all three, then go back for the fourth.

Dean whined in grief. “God-fuckin’- _dammit_.”

“Alas, I think that was all your fault,” Castiel said, with one crooked eyebrow. “God does not often interfere with baking.”

“Hmmm.” Dean turned away with his plate, his mind on sandwiches now, not the devilish spell that damned song had cast over them both. The song petered out in any case, and drifted into another one of Charlie’s poppier works, distinctly more Paramore than Depeche Mode or Queens of the Stone Age.

“Needed to shift these things about while they were cooking,” Dean uttered, poking at a latke and checking the still-sizzling underside. “Stainless steel ain’t always steady heat. Lucky these didn’t come out too bad. Black’s good for the soul. Call it barbecue bread, yeah?”

Castiel shot him a fond look. “Barbecue it is.”

Within seconds, Castiel’s rice timer went off beeping, and he spent a half-minute fighting with the alarm buttons before he could tend to the rice. He nodded appreciatively, then looked around for a mixing bowl, finding one offered in Dean’s outstretched hand.

For a couple of minutes, Dean didn’t see much of what Castiel did, as he himself had become dedicated to washing scads of green wavy-edged lettuce, drying it, cutting a set of perfect tomato slices and red onion strings, getting the lamb kebabs out of the pan he’d kept medium-heated, dividing it all into two mounds, then arranging half his lot ever-so-neatly on a salad-covered latke.

He whipped up his cream cheese until it was light and fluffy and spreadable, and put a good helping on his sandwich, making sure to keep to the kitchen island and not go anywhere near the oven, always mindful of the kosher rules. Granted, it wasn’t as if any of the Jewish (or Muslim) people who wanted kosher barbecue would find out if he slipped up one time, and accidentally confused meat-only and dairy-only equipment – but he wasn’t about to slip up.

One of the first things Dean had done while moving in – even before reassembling his bed – was to get his home kitchen certified kosher for commercial product sale. He may have been the sort to change his rules of personal conduct when nobody else was looking, but not when it came to making food for other people. Food for other people had to be... perfect. And that was never his dad talking. That was all Dean. Dad never cared about food for other people unless it was free, Dean thought to himself, as he plopped the remaining meat over the cream cheese, making a wildly unkosher midnight snack.

“You done, Cas?” Dean asked. Castiel had crouched a bit to measure out the _exact_ right amount of pesto with a large serving spoon, apparently after having measured out the _exact_ right amount of rice.

“Two minutes,” Castiel said. Now he took Dean’s still-hot latke pan and poured his mixed-up rice-and-pesto combo into it, shoving it around with the spatula. “Just drying it out a bit. I want it to have a crunch to it.”

Dean stood by and watched – first the pan... then Cas.

God in Heaven, he was pretty. He had a bit of dark jaw stubble now, so late at night. Shadowy bags under his eyes. A fine wrinkle of a smile, either side of his pink mouth. There was concentration and satisfaction in the way he kept his eyes on the pan – and then came a twitch of amusement, glancing at Dean, aware he was observing.

Pulling the pan from the heat, Castiel looked around. “Coriander?” he asked.

“The seeds or the leaves?”

“Leaves.”

“ _Cilantro_ , dude. _Cilantro_ ” Dean went to lean out of the window to get cilantro from the windowsill herb garden. Night air felt thick and fat against Dean’s hands and forearms, a sensation scored by cicadas hissing in their multitudes. There was one chittering happily within a foot of the window, unseen in the dark.

Dean lowered the window with five fan-shaped leaves in hand, washing it all for Castiel before he needed to ask.

Castiel took the leaves to his dish, which was now tidily displayed in a white bowl, with six green and salty olives dotted atop it. Dean didn’t know when Cas had made a sauce, but there was now a sauce, and Castiel trailed it in a dripping mustard-yellow spiral around the top of his risotto. Lastly, he sprinkled coriander shreds on its top, giving it a fresh look.

Dean had to admit it: his mouth was watering. “God, that looks – _smells_ incredible.”

“Wait until you taste it,” Castiel said.

Dean cocked his head and invited Cas to look at the sandwich on the island counter. It was presented with expert artistry: clean white plate, sandwich sliced diagonally, with one triangle propped up against the other. Cream cheese melted out onto the plate, where red speckles of paprika were dusted across the feast. It still steamed a little.

“What d’ya say,” Dean muttered, touching Castiel’s lower back. “Try our own, then try each other’s?”

Castiel nodded. “I didn’t think I’d be hungry tonight after everything I ate earlier, and yet...?”

“Tell me about it,” Dean murmured, washing his hands after Cas, then tossing him a clean towel to dry up. While Castiel looked for a place to sit, Dean fetched them both cutlery and re-rinsed it under running water, just in case a gluten molecule stuck around. “Hey-hey, Cas. Barstools. Right there.” He made he way over. “Oh, lemme get that.” He tossed the aprons onto the counter, and then sat swivelled towards Castiel, as Castiel perched beside him.

They shared a confident, content smile.

Dean lifted a half-sandwich in a toast. Castiel took a spoonful of his risotto and nodded. And they both ate...

Dean groaned as his teeth sank into a dense crisp-edged wad of deliciousness, cool-warm cheese and tender red meat and smoke and the slick-slide-crunch of fresh lettuce all filling his mouth just the way he liked it. He moaned again, eyes shut. He chewed slowly, working the textures over his grateful tongue.

He drew a deep, jubilant breath, and looked at Castiel in urging. “How is it?” he asked, watching Castiel mouth at his second spoonful, twenty glossy red rice grains swiped under his top lip and chewed. Castiel just nodded, humming. “Mm-hm.”

Dean wet his lips. “Can I...?”

Castiel took another spoonful and offered it to Dean. Then he pulled back the spoon and asked, “Wait, did you drink beer?”

“Beer? When?”

“Earlier.”

Dean shrugged. “Just one. I’m not drunk. You’re not takin’ advantage, promise.”

“What’s beer made of, Dean?” Castiel intoned.

Dean scrunched up his lip. “Uh. Water, mostly.”

“And?”

“And...” Dean huffed. “And wheat.” He got up and fetched himself his own spoon, washing it. “Guess I ain’t kissin’ you anytime tonight, huh.”

Castiel looked up from his food in surprise. “Kissing,” he said. “Oh.”

Dean flustered, but kept smiling, trudging back to his barstool and sitting. “Maybe, uh... some other time.” He filled his spoon and drew it closer, eyes on Cas’ sparkling blue stare. “Yeah?”

Castiel smiled, then nodded. “I think I’d like that.”

Dean downed his spoonful of risotto, and his eyebrows shot up. “Holy mother of—” He glared at the food in abject horror. “What the fuck. That’s awesome. How did you— It’s frickin’ pesto. With rice. What the _hell_.”

“Mustard; pepper. Olive oil and salt and a touch of balsamic vinegar to bring out the flavours. There’s natural taste in there, I didn’t drown the flavours, as you assumed I would. I just made sure it was uniform. I cut the meat and spread it out so you always get some in your mouth. Everything’s in perfect balance. Hence,” Castiel leaned in conspiratorially, and exposed his dark secret: “the measuring.”

Dean found himself grinning, shaking his head. “And I thought your speciality was desserts.”

“And _I_ thought that sandwich was burnt,” Castiel replied, beckoning. “Let me try?”

Dean gave him the untouched half from his plate. Castiel handled it carefully, then lined up his lips and sank his teeth in deep. “Hm!” He set fingertips to his mouth, eyes wide as his cheeks bulged and moved about. “Hmm-m-mh-mm.”

“Yeah?” Dean leaned an elbow on the counter, grinning so widely it hurt, gazing at Castiel all the while.

Castiel sank down in obvious bliss, savouring his mouthful until he swallowed. He then took a moment to inhale the aroma of his potato-pancake sandwich, then, lips licked, he bit into it again. He had the soft-eyed look of a kid who’d just been handed his comfort food at the end of a long day.

Dean bit his lip. “Sooooo...” He reached tentatively for the risotto. “You gonna eat that, or—?”

Castiel crammed his sandwich in his mouth and kept it there, hands free to take his spoon and ladle out a pile of his rice onto Dean’s condensation-speckled plate. Dean was happy with that, and dug in, humming and mumbling happy noises as he tipped the plate and scooped up every damn grain of goodness. Beside him, Castiel basked in the glory of Dean’s newest masterpiece.

“You know,” Castiel said, sucking his thumb clean of cream cheese once he had a quarter-sandwich left, “I think I’ll give this one to you. You win. Officially.”

“Aw, are you kidding? Cas, you just blew my goddamn mind. I feel like— You know when you’re a kid and you hate vegetables. Because they’re bitter and mushy and gro-ho- _hohss_ , yeah? And then you – you taste them cooked different for the first time. Not boiled or microwaved the way Mom did. This time it’s sautéed in garlic or somethin’. Or covered in peanut butter and roasted. Or raw, dipped in hummus. And you’re like, holy shit, my whole life has been a lie. That? That.” Dean stabbed a finger at Cas’ rice bowl. His fingers moved to his own half of the sandwich, which he now took to eat. “I said earlier if you won the pool game I’d owe you a favour. Right now I’m owing you two.”

Castiel smiled to himself. “In that case I believe we owe each other two favours each. This was... not anything like I expected. And yet it was precisely what I wanted. If I could have you cook this three times a day for the next two months solid, I _would_. I am _not_ exaggerating. I would one-hundred-percent eat this and nothing else.”

Dean started. Cas actually sounded serious about that. “Huh.”

“But my point is,” Castiel said, getting back to his spoon and digging it into his rice, “as astounding as that was, Dean, you—” He almost grinned. “How do I say this? You’re clearly a genius. Or to be more historically accurate: you _have_ a genius. You have something... outside of you, within you, guiding you to create great things, Dean. Believe it’s not God if you like; that’s your prerogative – but you are... extraordinarily gifted.”

Dean tried to scoff that away, but Castiel gazed at him openly, and pressed, “ _I_ know how to cook because I’ve followed a thousand recipes and learned to commit the concepts to memory. I don’t invent things. I go very _much_ by the book, even without a book in sight. Whereas – tonight? Dean, I just threw a whole new set of rules at you, removed almost every standard ingredient at your disposal, gave you an _incredibly_ narrow margin for error, watched you proceed to work entirely by instinct, without relying on any formal measurements whatsoever – and – and I cannot stress this enough – you _still_ delivered. Not only that, but...” Castiel looked softly into Dean’s eyes, searching them, as if wondering why Dean withdrew from such praise. “But you made something wonderful,” Castiel whispered. There were actual tears in his eyes. “Thank you.”

Dean had stopped eating. He shook his head, but couldn’t find words.

“I.. I’m not—” Dean tried to smile but it came out shaky. “Nn-nn. Cas, that’s, uh... I mean, I appreciate it, really, but—”

“You don’t believe me,” Castiel realised.

Dean shook his head. “You told me what to make. Half of what I made existed already. I just made hash browns, dude.”

Castiel gripped Dean’s arm in a tender hand, drawing his eyes to meet his own. There was a sparkle in Castiel’s gaze, fearless. “Perhaps, Dean, if I put this in terms you’ll understand... You made the best God-damn hash browns I’ve ever eaten in my fucking life.”

Dean felt a smirk tick up his shivering lips. “Heh,” he said.

Castiel leaned in and put a kiss on Dean’s cheek, warm and soft and prickly. He pulled back, blushing. Their eyes met. Dean’s whole body was roaring with heat.

Green eyes lowered to Castiel’s lips. Dean drew a breath...

Castiel’s lips parted; he knew the danger of the beer on Dean’s lips but still... _still_...

Castiel shut his eyes, and leaned in—

“ _DEAN, WE’RE BAAACK_ ,” Charlie yelled, as the front door slammed open.

Sam laughed, shushing her. “ _Oh my God, is that Team Free Will playing? Do you think he died before he could change the playlist?_ ”

“ _I’ll go check. Turn that off, would you? Wow._ ”

Dean hung his head, shoulders shifting as Castiel settled back to his own stool, both inclined to act casual as Charlie came into the kitchen, bringing with her a wisp of outside air and a beaming presence.

“Okay, good, you’re not dead,” Charlie said. She went to the fridge and opened it to look in. “Since when do you let _people_ listen to this crap, huh?”

“It’s not crap,” Castiel complained. “Granted, it may not stick to a solid genre – it seems to bounce between country, hard rock, jazz, late-nineties pop, spoken poetry, and death metal, somehow without being cumulatively influenced by each style as a whole, and has lyrical themes just as variable – but it’s obviously personal. To both of you. It was experimental. It’s a time capsule of emotion, I imagine. It must bring back some difficult memories. But for me it’s... it reminds me of a trickier time, but of moments in that period where everything was laid in, where I finally knew what was going to happen next. I turned out to be wrong, of course, and I haven’t used my history degree for anything whatsoever, but still.” He looked tenderly at Dean, and nodded. “I love your music. We owe each other a couple of favours, I believe; I’d like to call in one of mine. If you happen to have a spare album on hand, I’d love to get my hands on it next time we meet.” He stood, a warm hand putting pressure on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean’s head swung left to right to follow Cas’ movement. “Dude, you’re leaving?”

“It’s past midnight,” Castiel said sadly, with a smile. “Thank you for the meal, Dean. And the opportunity to cook with a maestro such as yourself. Truly, it was an honour.”

“Oh boy, _maestro_?” Charlie leaned against the counter with her hoodie tied around her waist, a pot of yoghurt in one hand and a teaspoon in the other. “Where’s _that_ guy been hiding? We’ve had to deal with Mr. Meat Man for God knows how many years. This guy _faints_ at the sight of lettuce. Yet doth my eyes deceive me? Looks lettuce-y to me. No?”

Castiel paused in the kitchen doorway, holding Dean’s eyes. “He’s always been there, the maestro,” Castiel said. “I think, perhaps...” He pressed his lips together, then parted them, going on, “There are some fronts we try very hard to keep up, because it’s expected.” He glanced at Charlie and smiled stiffly. “We don’t want to let anyone down. We want to be seen as something better, stronger than what we are. But...” He drew a breath, and seemed to lose the thread of what he was saying.

So Dean finished, “But maybe what’s under it all is better, right? I-I-In some ways, I mean. Not perfect, ‘cause nobody’s perfect. Might be a little tough to deal with sometimes. Maybe kind of an asshole. Definitely not everyone’s favourite person. But. But true, you know? Genuine.”

Castiel inclined his head. “True of me, certainly. But I fail to see what’s so terrible about admitting you like eating lettuce and cake.”

Sam burst into existence behind Castiel and squeaked, “ _You’ve_ been stealing my lettuce? Dean, for God’s sake, you swore up and down lettuce made you sick! You—” Sam made a wildly frustrated noise, and Dean growled, head in his hands.

Castiel grimaced. “Hm. I’ll owe you three favours, let’s call it.”

“Four,” Dean said, holding up four fingers, as Sam rushed for the fridge and opened it, discovering the absence of everything from the crisper, which Dean and Castiel had purloined for their late-night cook-off.

“Cas?” Dean called, over Sam’s huffy-puffy complaints. “Take your tupperware.”

Castiel took the tupperware. Before he turned to leave, he was glad to see Dean give Sam a sorry smile, and Sam plop down in frustration, only to be offered the leftover sandwich. Sam took it, and ate it. Dean patted Sam on the back, and Sam leaned into his touch, rolling his eyes, but smiling.

  
♥  



	6. Sugarbox

It wasn’t much of a treasure hunt, really. Of course there was a prize at the end, and a bit of a quest to get there, but all he’d had to do beforehand was look up ‘ _Shotgun BBQ Austin_ ’ and there was the website emblazoned in black and red, telling him precisely where the catering truck was setting up camp for the weekend, complete with a map.

So Castiel drove to that quiet section of the highway. There, spindles of fresh stalks overgrew the cut shapes of riotously green hedges, slow-swaying trees overhung the section, and the grass was a little long and a little yellow.

Castiel parked diagonally on an already-flattened grass verge, turning off his car. A gust of smoke eased from the truck off to his left, blurring across his windshield. There were a few people nearby, perched on a park bench, eating happily.

Heat smothered Castiel as he stepped into it. He unbuttoned his shirt collar and untucked its hem right away, then carried his tupperware towards the truck. A hot breeze sighed along happily. The smug buzz of bees and the distant grumble of a ride-on lawnmower made the air vibrate, amidst the sizzle and occasional cricks of the insects in the grass. Dust and seeds flew up around Castiel’s jeans, giving his marching steps a dainty gold outline.

He came to _Smokin’ Shotgun_ , and looked carefully at the menu boards for the first time ever. They were presented on the blackboard shutters either side of the hatch, handwritten in all caps, with some colourful illustrations.

Charlie was laughing in the truck with Sam and hadn’t yet seen Castiel – but at the sound of knuckles rapped on hollow metal, realised there was an unexpected customer waiting, and leaned forward. “Hey there, what can I get yooooohh _hey_ there, Cas! Sam, it’s Cas! Heya, Cas.”

“Hello,” Castiel said with a smile. “Is Dean here?”

Charlie and Sam had been giving him twin grins of delight, but both faltered to what seemed like nervous, pitying flat smiles. Sam was the one to say, “He headed out – about twenty minutes ago. Sorry. He had a delivery to make.”

“You deliver?”

“Oh, no. Not usually. Dean put a box together and snuck out, all top-secret.” Sam’s grin widened again. “Can we get you anything? A drink, at least.”

Castiel lowered his eyes to the tupperware he’d brought. “Um.” He hesitated, thinking about handing the tub to Sam and Charlie, knowing they’d save it for Dean... but it seemed such a shame not to hand it over directly. “Thank you,” Castiel said, looking up again, “but no. Do you know when Dean will be back? If?”

Sam and Charlie glanced at each other. “Not sure,” Charlie said. “He might not be. Tomorrow, though. We’re here tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Castiel twisted his lips to the side. “I’m teaching tomorrow.”

“I can text him?” Sam offered. “Tell him you came by.”

“Um, no, it’s okay. He’s busy. I’ll just—” Castiel tilted his head towards his car. “I’ll try and come by some other time. Thank you. Have a good afternoon.”

Trying not to frown, Castiel paced back to his car. Oh, it was such a lovely day. Too lovely to waste by feeling disappointed. And yet he couldn’t help it...

Was this fate? A sign from God?

He’d come out here ready to throw himself into something new, into _being_ something new. He was ready to become a complete sum of his parts, not fragments of a whole with each collection of traits performed one at a time depending on who he was around.

Last week Dean had drawn the parts of Castiel that he feared most out into the light, and yet didn’t shy away from them. Unlike Mariela – unlike anyone, really – Dean didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with how Castiel acted when he got overly focused or competitive or snappy or intense. Dean seemed... And this was the part Castiel still struggled to understand... He seemed to _like_ it.

Granted, Castiel had grown up a lot since meeting Mariela, and had learned to manage himself in a way that let him keep control over himself even when the situation was not unfolding the way he’d expected and went off-script. It was possible – nay, likely – that the ‘worst’ of him now was nothing like the ‘worst’ of him from years ago. He was a different person these days.

But he felt more accepted by Dean than he’d known it was possible to feel. He felt almost comfortable around him. Not completely comfortable, not yet. But Castiel was _prepared_ to feel comfortable. Willing. He knew the potential was there. He’d never had that feeling with a man before. Or, he realised, anyone else. Even with Mariela he knew he couldn’t relax entirely, because then he made mistakes. Social blunders. Embarrassments.

_Don’t slouch. You shouldn’t be so blunt, mijo; remember other people have feelings. This isn’t the right time to talk about that. Don’t frown so much! Why is it so hard for you to answer simple questions?! Smile, mijo, for me. You’re staring again. You’re asking too many questions; if you want answers take your problems up with God; He’ll give you a sign. Don’t you have any interests except baking and your math worksheets? This is all you do! Go outside for once, mijo. Come on, come with me. We’ll get ice cream. Don’t slurp. Use your napkin. Stay on the path while you eat, child, the bees will still be there later._

The point was, Dean didn’t seem to think they _were_ mistakes. Castiel did not act, communicate, or process information in the straightforward ways other people did, in the ways that, to him, looked so effortless. Dean worked with that so-called flaw. And that made all the difference to Castiel.

But Dean wasn’t here right now.

Castiel had a tupperware of cupcakes going uneaten, slowly melting in the heat. With them melted Castiel’s hope, until he felt sludgy and sad.

_If Dean and I were meant to be_ , he thought, _it would happen_. And it wasn’t happening.

Castiel had survived all his life without Dean. So he probably didn’t need him now, either. Anything Dean made Castiel feel, even if they _were_ new emotions, Castiel could figure out how to feel them alone.

He reached for his car’s ignition, and turned the key to start the engine.

  
♥  


The church looked kinda drab from the outside. It wasn’t the kind that had a steeple or a cross or big welcoming doors or a board outside with a positive letterboard message. It was an old, crumbly block of dark-stained wood with a deserted parking lot at the front, with all the lines worn away.

And the front doors were locked with a chain, which Dean found... upsetting.

So he sat on the hood of his car, shoulders scalded by the sun even through his t-shirt, arms folded, eyes set on the church doors, willing them to open. According to the Internet, this was where Castiel ran his little after-school math program, and given its location, Dean had to assume it was also where Cas did his religious stuff. Obviously ‘after-school’ meant it ran on weekdays only, so Saturdays weren’t really a day for open doors, but still. It had never occurred to him that churches could be locked, or had off hours.

Anyway, Cas wasn’t here. And there was box containing a gluten free barbecue-and-salad feast beside Dean, uneaten. It wasn’t getting colder, but hotter, as the black hood of the Impala had absorbed enough sunshine that Dean’s ass was getting burnt.

With a grimace of defeat, Dean dropped his boots back to the half-melted tarmac and took up his box. He got back into his car and put the delicious-smelling barbeque on the seat beside him.

Then he looked at the box thoughtfully.

He’d brought enough food to share. He’d planned on providing... well, not exactly a _date_ , but—

Okay, a date. He was supposed to show up and present his edible gift, and Cas would be flattered and Dean would tell an awkward but endearing joke and they’d both laugh. Then Cas would show Dean all his math-y church-y things and Dean would be appropriately enthused, and then they’d find a nice spot in the cool shade of the steeple, lie on the green daisy-dotted grass, and have a grand old time watching clouds or some romantic shit like that. Gaze at each other. Then Dean would roll over and give Cas the gluten free kiss he deserved.

Except Cas wasn’t here, there was no grass, and Dean was hungry.

He reached for the box... but drew back. Then reached again. It wasn’t like Cas was going to eat it, not being here and all.

Dean dipped a potato wedge in the egg-free mayo he’d learned how to make, and popped it into his mouth. Melted and warm. But good.

He sighed and closed up the box. He wiped his fingers on his jeans, then keyed his car to life. He rumbled his way out of the parking lot, trying to build a dam of stoicism in his chest to hold back the tide of disappointment.

He’d find Cas again, surely. Someday. Yeah, maybe their schedules would rarely line up, if they both worked on weekday evenings, and maybe Dean had no idea where Cas lived, and maybe Cas was too polite to drop by Dean’s house unannounced, and maybe he still had phone anxiety so would never call, and _maybe_ what had seemed like a magically revealing night last week felt more special to Dean than it had to Castiel. But all that aside, Dean did have faith. He did. He _liked_ Cas. He liked what Cas did to him. Pushed him further, kept him on his toes, pulled him into a world just different enough from his own to be interesting. Maybe – Dean allowed himself one more ‘maybe’ – that kind of passion might fade after time. But what if it didn’t? What if Castiel had dragged Dean into the open once, and given the chance, he would keep doing so for... years?

Dean shook his head and drove, thinking perhaps he was wishing for too much. He didn’t need to be completed by someone else. Cas could bring confidence out of Dean, so that confidence had to have been there all along. Dean had had it when he jammed out with Charlie, all those years ago. He just had to find it again.

  
♥  


Dean pulled up onto the verge beside _Smokin’ Shotgun_ , with a chunky, spicy potato wedge hanging from his lips. He poked it into his mouth and got out of the car, taking his half-empty box over to the truck, chewing as he went.

“Hmyh,” he mumbled in greeting, mouth full. “Fup.”

Sam leaned out of the hatch, palms on the metal serving ledge. “Dude, you _just_ missed Cas! Like, two minutes ago.”

“Miffed hmm?” Dean swallowed hard, panting as the cayenne and a crisp edge rawed his throat. “Seriously? He was here?”

“You must’ve passed him on the highway.” Sam thumbed the way Dean had come. “He had a box of food as well. I was gonna text you but he said no.”

“Aw, come _on_ ,” Dean complained, head back. “Talk about ships in the night. God.” He rubbed his temple with fingertips, then withdrew when his skin prickled from the spice. “It’s like the universe is tryna keep us hungry.”

“Or thirsty,” Charlie joked, to a playful pat from Sam.

Dean flinched, hearing a nearby buzz. He looked around for a wasp, only to realise the buzz was coming from his own pocket. He set the barbecue box on the truck’s serving ledge, then reached for his cellphone.

“Yello?” he said, not recognising the cell number on the screen. Local, but not one from his address book. He glanced around, hearing silence. “Yo, anyone there?”

“ _Um_ ,” said the phone.

Dean lit up. “Cas! Hey!” He pressed fingertips to his phoneless ear and turned away from the truck, paying Cas all his attention. “Where are you, man? I’m at the truck, Sam just said you dropped by.”

“ _Ahhhh. Yes. I. I just passed a black car. I’m not an expert on cars, but. I wondered if it was yours. It seemed familiar._ ”

“Vintage black Chevy? Yeah.” Dean nodded. He looked down the road, at greenery fading into a dusty golden haze as the road wound on. “Turn around. I’ll get some food together. We’ll have a picnic, how’s that.”

“ _I brought cupcakes,_ ” Castiel said.

“Yeah, I – heh – I made you lunch but I ate it,” Dean admitted. “Well, kind of. I ate the wedges. Heyhey, Charlie, could I get another set of wedges? Please? Pretty please? Hee. Awesome. Thanks.”

“ _I heard you were making a delivery._ ”

“Yeah, and you weren’t there!” Dean huffed. “I found your church, by the way.”

“ _It’s Saturday. It’s locked on Saturdays._

“So I discovered.” Dean shoved fingers into a pocket, head down as he grinned, scuffing the gritty roadside with a heel. “Guess y’all don’t like praying on Saturdays.”

“ _Oh, I pray on Saturdays,_ ” Castiel replied. “ _Some of my best prayers happen on Saturdays. Sometimes they’re answered, actually._ ”

“Oh yeah? Like how?” Dean took the refilled box from Charlie with a grateful nod.

“ _Well, I happened to pray that I’d find you today,_ ” Castiel said with a smile in his voice. “ _I don’t believe in dumb luck. I think we found each other for a reason._ ”

“Is that reason cake? ‘Cause I could sure use somethin’ sweet right about now.”

“ _That I certainly can provide,_ ” Castiel said. He gave a small chuckle, and Dean, who’d just found an empty picnic table under a tree, sat down on its top and tensed all over with quiet delight. “ _Although you should be warned the sweetness comes with a bitter kick._ ”

“Hey, I like an edge,” Dean smiled. “Slice of lemon. Twist of orange. Little bit of sarcasm here and there.”

“ _Good to hear._ ”

“Yeah, so are you,” Dean mumbled, curling over his lap, one hand hooked behind his neck. “I’m, umm. Real glad to hear from you. Kinda thought we might not cross paths for a while, you know? Wasn’t sure you’d ever call. And I couldn’t get your – hah – _landline telephone_ number off my machine at home. Private number—”

“ _Hidden number, yes,_ ” Castiel finished. “ _Sorry about that. Mariela’s choice._ ”

“Hey, the radio silence turned out for the best, right? Almost. How far away are you, anyway?”

“ _Not especially far._ ”

“Answer the question, Cas. Like, in miles. Yards. Minutes. Anything.”

“ _I’m here now,_ ” Castiel said, and his voice echoed.

Dean looked up and saw the dazzling figure of Cas in a loose white shirt and skinny grey jeans and a whole entire halo of sunlight behind his head. Dean’s mouth opened, and his lip bobbed. “Yeah,” he said, with a twitch of a smile. “I get that.”

Castiel squinted. “I’m... gonna... hang up... now.”

“Yeah. You do that.”

Castiel’s hand hesitated, then lowered, and he looked down to end the call. Dean ended his own, and grinned. Their eyes met.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s heart did something alarmingly pleasant: it leapt.

  
♥  


Castiel thrust out his yellow tupperware. “This is for you.”

Dean indicated the barbecue box. “Ditto. And your, uh... Team Free Will album’s in the car. Um. Wanna sit?”

Castiel nodded, and, after some consideration of the bench, and how Dean was obviously not sitting on it correctly, did a most irregular thing and sat with Dean on its top. Boots on the seat, they faced out towards a sparkling blue pond that was fluffed with white clouds, reflecting the sky perfectly.

“This is beautiful,” Castiel breathed.

“Sure is.” Dean drew a deep, happy-sounding breath, then hummed. “I say we start with dessert,” he said. “Can’t imagine your cake is faring too well in this weather.”

Castiel squinted. “You’re not supposed to eat dessert first.”

“Pff! Who the hell cares? We’re not kids. We’re not fancy folk or royals. It’s frickin’ Texas. What d’ya _wanna_ eat first?”

Castiel considered the open box and its still-sizzling wedges, then the cakes, which were half the height they’d been an hour ago. Despite longing for another taste of Dean’s cooking, Castiel knew which he wanted _first_ , because he wanted to properly savour the aftertaste of barbecue.

He felt _guilty_ reaching for a cupcake – but then he held it in his fingers and felt such a flush of glorious naughtiness that he grinned. He gave Dean a dastardly look, and Dean laughed, nodding, picking out a cupcake of his own.

“These are cute,” he said, turning the cake to look at the icing. “Little heart-shaped sugar confetti, aww. That’s adorable.”

Castiel blushed. “I hope it’s not inappropriate.”

“What, the sprinkles? Dude. Sprinkles are never inappropriate.” Dean batted at Castiel’s thigh, then sank his teeth into the cake. “‘S puhfechkt.”

Castiel relaxed a bit. He ate a cupcake of his own quietly and neatly, eyes on the gloss of the lake, watching clouds stroll by.

Soon his sun-sparked eyes turned from the water towards the earth, and the tree that shaded them in dappled gold and green. A blackbird chakked from the lowest boughs, fussing about, then it look off with a bluster of wings, grazing Castiel’s cheek with the soft tip of a feather – he darted away, then gasped, realising he’d knocked into Dean’s side, and their bodies were pressed close now.

Dean just looked at him. He smiled, one cheek bulging, icing on his lips.

Castiel looked at his lips.

A sign from God, indeed. _Thank you,_ Castiel thought. The blackbird’s push was encouragement enough. Better than ‘enough’, in fact, as Castiel knew it to be a symbol of temptation. A little rule-breaking was not the same as wrongdoing, he supposed. Dean would never be Mariela’s favourite person, but she herself was hardly the picture of piety and goodness. Dean was graceful... and generous... and oh, so gorgeous.

And he had icing on his lips.

“I... Dean? If you weren’t to object, I... I’d really like to... kiss you, right now,” Castiel said. “But—”

“You can,” Dean said. He blushed but didn’t let his eyes lower for more than a moment. “I haven’t eaten bread or corn, or had any beer. All week. Been real good, I promise. Salads and fish, and _quinoa_. Olive oil on everything. I’ve checked and double-checked every ingredient. It’s been a weird week. Sam’s been happy, tell ya that much.”

Castiel tilted his head, perplexed. “You haven’t eaten any...? Why?”

Dean shrugged. “A man’s gotta have _some_ faith, right? That certain people...” his hand slid to Castiel’s knee, rubbing, holding, “are worth changing for. Worth giving stuff up for. Worth... growing for. Even not knowing if I’d ever see you again, I figured I might as well try, right? Even not knowing if you’d even want me, or wanna kiss me. I mean, it’s crazy – sounds crazy – but even not knowing—”

Castiel grabbed Dean’s fuzzy jaw and kissed him, deeply, slowly, pushing into his lips. His heart felt like it was going to beat its way out of his mouth and into Dean’s, but it never got further than his throat. His breath shuddered, a little sound of wonder sneaking out.

He felt Dean’s lashes flutter, and a smile emerge under his lips. Dean tilted his head, which shocked Castiel into releasing him.

They stared, happy and stunned. Dean’s eyes had all the forests and grasslands of the world flourishing inside them.

Then Castiel realised he’d still been holding the cake he’d been eating when he leaned in, and the icing had smushed to Dean’s cheek. “Oh—” He laughed, glancing coquettishly at Dean. “Let me...” He hesitated, but leaned in and kissed away the icing, sucking Dean’s cheek a little. Dean grinned through the process, chuckling every few seconds, letting his head be tilted.

  
  


Pulling back, they sat still again, gazes unbroken.

Castiel licked his lower lip, taking away the last trace of sweetness.

Dean smiled. Then he grinned. Then he dropped his chin and laughed. He glanced up, giving Castiel a beautiful look, full of obvious affection, the kind Castiel didn’t need to examine or question, because it was just so clear on his face.

“I made you mayo,” Dean said. “From scratch. Egg free. It’s all avocado oil and mustard and paprika n’ crap like that. You know how canned chickpeas come with that gloopy water? Turns out that’s, like, a perfect egg white replacement.”

Castiel felt his heart skip upward in his chest. “You did research!” he exclaimed, with genuine warmth bleeding into his voice. “ _Dean_.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean mumbled, head down. “Kind of exciting. Cooking something other than... charred animal carcasses. It’s organic, too! I swear, I’ve never seen Sammy happier in my life.”

Castiel laughed, nudging Dean’s side affectionately. “Let’s try this mayonnaise of yours, then.”

Dean slid the burning-hot box onto his left thigh, sharing the weight with Castiel’s right thigh. They opened up the box, and began picking out food together, Castiel dipping and humming and nodding approvingly, while Dean watched him, always smiling, always shiny-eyed.

“Listen, I gotta say it,” Dean declared. “You and me, Cas... we kinda made an awesome team, huh. Cooking together.”

Castiel nodded, eyes wide. “Oh, absolutely. I’ve never enjoyed sharing my kitchen with anyone, and last week— Well. It was incredible for me. I thought I was too hard to work with. Now I’m wondering if—”

“If you were just working with the wrong people,” Dean said. “Yeah.” He smothered a wedge in mayo and tipped it between his lips, head back. “Hm.”

“Actually,” Castiel started. But then he stopped, lips pressed together.

Dean waited, but nothing else came. “What? What were you gonna say?”

Castiel shook his head. “No, I shouldn’t. I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Jinx—” Dean hummed. “Hhh, ‘kay?”

“But—” Castiel’s breath was eager to blast out, and words followed: “I love baking, Dean. I love it. But I’ve always had to relegate it to weekends and late nights and – and it’s a hobby, you understand. It’s always been a hobby. Then it started turning a profit when we did bake sales and visited events and fairs, but now... it’s not really... _mine_ , does that make sense? I don’t mean the money, although the money’s been vital in fixing up the church bit-by-bit. But of all the people calling themselves part of _Sunday’s Child_ , I’m the one pouring – _everything_ into these things, these desserts. I don’t mean to imply I want to withdraw from that – I wish I could do _more_. I wish I could bake every day, not just sometimes. Not just when people need me to or want me to. I want to do it as a hobby again. For fun. Or even for profit; I just want to _do_ it.

“I like eating my own cooking but not nearly as much as I love watching it appreciated by the people who’ve been looking far and wide for cakes they can eat. I want to teach math,” Castiel gestured to one side, “and I want to bake cakes,” he set his hands to the other side, “but week by week the after-school program is encroaching on every spare hour of my day. Business is good, and I’m loath to say it, but I wasn’t prepared for that success. I wanted to succeed at the baking, but that’s not how it turned out. Mariela said the teaching was more important...” Castiel shrugged, confused by his own feelings of regret. “I’m sure she’s right, logically, but I wish she was wrong.

“I almost didn’t sleep last night, Dean, I wanted so badly to bake these for you and there were only so many hours to spare. I adore what I do. I love doing _both_ , I really do – but I want more baking in my life.” He sighed. “Those moments... with you? Cooking with you, back-to-back. I felt more... _powerful_... than I ever have in my life. I was... floating. Electrified. I knew what to do and did it to no-one’s instruction but my own, and I loved every moment of it.”

He gazed at Dean sternly, heart pounding.

“I want that,” he said, breathless. “Dean, I want to feel that. Every damn day.”

Dean grinned. “You seriously mean that, huh.”

“Of course I mean it.”

Dean nodded. He lifted a hand and clapped it firmly over Castiel’s knuckles. “We’ll figure it out. Me, you, Sammy, Charlie? Mariela too. We’ll figure it out.” His fingertips slid between Castiel’s fingers, holding on. “That’s what friends are for.” He held Castiel’s eyes, responding to astonishment with glee. “Cas? One question, though.”

“Hm?”

“Hhhhow does saying you want a career shift jinx it, exactly? You gotta tell people what you’re goin’ for, don’t ya? Keeping it to yourself means it’s kinda hard for anyone to help you get there.”

“Oh...” Castiel wondered. “I’m just trying to be content with what I have, that’s all. I’ve been blessed with abundance after a lot of hard work, I don’t want to have it come down around me because I’m lusting after something else.”

Dean laughed with his head back and a hand on his belly. He soon sobered, but a sparkle stayed in his eyes. “Aspirations, dude. Ever heard of them? Far as I know having personal goals ain’t a deadly sin. You’re a philanthropic entrepreneur, Cas. Like me and Sammy and Charlie. We make something, we make it bad, or okay, or good, then we move on and make somethin’ else. Nothing wrong with that. It’s fun. Sometimes crap works out – case in point—” He thumbed at the smoking truck, where eager customers huddled at the hatch. “And sometimes it doesn’t. Team Free Will was awesome at the time but kind of a dud, looking back. But it was still important, y’know? It was a stepping stone. We all learned from it. Besides, if everyone was content nobody would grow and nothing would change.”

Castiel marvelled at that philosophy.

Dean grinned. “You can be grateful, Cas. And greedy. And generous. All at once.”

“Like you,” Castiel said.

Dean was stumped for a second, then shrugged and nodded. “Guess. Yeah.” His brow pinched, but then he smiled. “Thanks.”

Castiel smiled too. He carried on letting Dean hold his hand, and carried on admiring the pond, and the sunshine, and the waft of delicious smoke that breezed in this direction every so often. With it came the tang of Dean’s cologne and sweat, and Castiel breathed in.

Dean was right: sometimes a little bitterness was good for the soul. A little wrongness could be very right indeed. Just as, best of all, a little loneliness and longing and emotional hunger had now led Castiel to reach out and take one of the most nourishing moments of his life so far.

He was fascinated to find out what would come next.

  
♥  



	7. Shotgun Sugarbun

“You’re going to hate it,” Castiel said. “You don’t want to look at it, that’s why you want to be blindfolded.”

“I’m not going to hate it,” Dean scoffed. “I called in one of my many, _many_ favours, and I know for a fact you delivered. ‘Cause you always do. I want to be blindfolded because I want it to be a _surprise_.”

“If you wanted it to be a surprise you could just be surprised,” Castiel reasoned, while picking out a blue silk necktie that he usually wore to Sunday mass.

“Cas?” Dean’s eyes lifted to the beams on the ceiling. “Just take your tie and get in the car, dude. I’mma text Sam and Kevin and tell them we’re on our way. _God_ , Cas—” He let irritation flare up, and he complained, “You have this _talent_ for beatin’ yourself up for no good reason. _I_ hated everything about myself for half my damn life, but I could still tell the difference between when I did something that sucked, and something that was awesome. When— Seriously. _When_ , in the year that I’ve known you, have you ever actually made anything that sucked? Legitimately sucked, I mean.”

Castiel folded his tie neatly and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. He felt a little smile tug on his lips.

Dean noticed the smile. “You’re messing with me,” he realised, slowly.

“It doesn’t suck,” Castiel admitted, eyes lifting to meet Dean’s with a twinkle. “You’ll love it.”

Dean patted Castiel’s arm, then squeezed as he eased past. “You’re an asshole.”

Castiel smiled after him. “You love me.”

Dean laughed as he left their bedroom. “More than dessert and barbecue combined.”

  
♥  


“Left foot up, there’s a bit of a lumpy-grass situation,” Castiel warned. “Higher. Highe— Whoa.” He caught Dean as he stumbled. “Watch out. There’s a curious bee. Okay, don’t worry, it just thought the tie looked interesting. Come on. Almost there.”

“Is my mom here yet?”

“She’s over by Charlie and Kevin and Mariela and Sam. They’re taking pictures.”

“Of us?”

“Of you waddling around with a tie on your head and your boot toe in a rabbit warren.”

“I’m not in a rabbit warren.”

“One misstep and you would’ve been. Left again. Okay, we’re on the cut grass now. Just a few more steps. Aaaand, stop. Are you ready? I can take the blindfold off now.”

“Hmm.” Dean’s fingers wriggled. “I’m kinda... nervous.”

“You needn’t be. Charlie and I did spectacularly. And if you really hate how it looks, Dean, we _can_ change it.”

“I’m not gonna hate it.”

“Then why are you nervous?”

“It’s just – it’s a big deal. Cas. The final boss level. This whole year’s been crazy. Can you believe it was _last_ summer that we started out? Transferring your math program into Sam and Kevin’s capable hands so you’d have more time to bake – I thought that was crazy, ‘cause then I’m barbecuing by myself while Charlie rings up totals. Those three months were _insane_.”

“I remember, Dean. I _was_ the one who suggested the situation needed an overhaul. You were running yourself into the ground on everyone’s account but your own.”

“But at least we were practising getting your baking timing down to a fine art! Which, yeah, was fun, but kinda nuts, given we didn’t exactly have a good reason for it at the time. Then you fuckin’ moved in with me, Cas – basically on accident, right? – and I thought that was the craziest thing we’d ever do. But then we thought up _this_.” Dean gestured in the wrong direction, but Castiel got what he meant to indicate. “Crazier still – we _went_ for it. Scooped out the insides of a food truck like a goddamn pumpkin. I never renovated so hard in my life. Never learned so much about foodsellers’ permits, either, given Sam did it the first time. And. Cas,” Dean’s voice shook, “now the signage is done. And that was basically the last step. We’re gonna be... real _partners_ now. So yeah. I’m nervous.”

Castiel chuckled, lowering his nose to rest on the hot skin exposed by Dean’s tatty t-shirt collar. He put a tiny kiss there, smiling. “Dean,” he murmured, “we’re already partners.”

“You know what I mean.” Dean let out a calming breath. “Hmmmmm. Guess I’m not exactly nervous. I’m... excited.” He wriggled a hand by his thigh until he found Castiel’s fingers, and held on. Castiel squeezed assuringly.

“I’m taking your blindfold off.” Castiel reached up, grinning when he saw Charlie frantically poking at her phone while Kevin held his steady, most likely making a video. “Three... two...”

Dean kept his eyes shut as the tie swept away.

“Open your eyes,” Castiel said gently by Dean’s ear, gazing at the side of his freckly face, prepared to catalogue his every expression. “Welcome to our new life.”

Dean peeked open one eye, then the other snapped open the moment he saw the trucks. “Holy shit,” he whispered.

This had been one of Dean’s smartest, if wackiest ideas. He and Cas hadn’t been able to find the thing they wanted to buy, so about four months back, Dean had suggested they make it.

Two catering trucks each had double doors at their rear. Those interior doors, when opened and aligned, allowed two portable kitchens to become one long kitchen, with an open-air gap like between the carriages of a train. It was a little awkward to reverse both trucks up so their rumps touched, but when linked, the new sign painted on the sides of both matched up, flowing and floral and smoky.

_Shotgun Sugarbun_ , they’d called it.

The _Shotgun_ part was on Cas’ sky-blue allergen free bakery truck, and the _Sugarbun_ part was on Dean’s black kosher barbecue truck (née _Smokin’ Shotgun_ ), which was almost certainly going to confuse people, but the serving hatches would open on the wrong side otherwise. They’d make it work.

“Oh my God,” Dean grinned, taking Castiel’s arm and shaking it. “You and Charlie really painted that. _Damn_. You are _awesome_. Ooh, I like the swooshy flamey thing under the name. That’s cool. And the marigold flowers? Cute. I see Mariela’s Mexican influence. _Totally_ vibes.”

Castiel beamed.

Charlie came closer and got Dean and Cas to stand in front of the trucks so she could take pictures. The late morning sunlight was just heavenly: dappled and dreamy and drifting with glowing gold dust.

This was the first day of their new lives together, Charlie said.

_Kind of a marriage_ , Castiel thought. It was, wasn’t it? A marriage of skill and intention. He looked at Dean as he thought it, and felt himself ignite with possibility as Dean peered back.

Dean went dewy-eyed, and they shared a soft kiss, as the rest of their family documented the moment a hundred times over.

Mary Winchester came over, and opened her arms for a hug. Dean fell from Cas and pasted himself against his mother’s front, rocking her from foot to foot. “Thanks, Mom,” Dean whispered.

“For what?” Mary asked.

“For gettin’ me this far in one piece,” Dean mumbled, nosing into her shoulder.

“It’s perfect, mijo,” Mariela said, taking Castiel into a hug as soon as he was out of Dean’s embrace. “You’ve done so well for yourself.”

“I’ve done well for all of us, I hope,” Castiel said, hands on her arms as she squeezed around the back of his head, standing on tiptoes to reach. They leaned back and Castiel stood tall again, smiling down at his older friend. “I just wish I didn’t have to step back from the math program to devote myself to this...”

“Hey, you’ll get back to it,” Sam said, clapping Castiel on the back. “Give it a few months. Settle in here. It’s not like there’s a shortage of marking _or_ marketing to do.”

“We’ll be waiting for you, boss,” Kevin promised, cheekily. Castiel grinned at him, then accepted his high-five.

“Hold still!” Charlie called, five feet away, holding her glittery pink phone in front of her face, carefully setting it on a tripod she’d brought. “Family picture time! Thirty second timer, and then a burst. Everyone scooch in!”

“Oh, no, no, not with me,” Mariela fussed, hurrying away.

But Charlie caught her and took her back. “Yes, with you. Didn’t you see what Castiel painted on the truck? Under the company name.”

Mariela looked, then looked again. “ _Shotgun Sugarbun_ ,” she read, “‘ _Winchester-Dominguez... F-Family BBQ and Bakery. Kosher and gluten free_ ’.”

Castiel slung an arm over Mariela’s rounded shoulders, and hugged his cheek to the top of her head as the phone took dozens of pictures. Slowly, Mariela wrapped him back into a hug.

“I’m so proud of you, mijo. You’re _such_ a good boy.”

Castiel shut his eyes, and smiled.

Soon enough the troupe took themselves into the kitchens, entering single-file through the driver’s door of the barbecue truck.

“Ohhh, yeah,” Dean said. “Just as good as I remember. Skylight? I’m a genius.” He beamed up at the skylight they’d punched in the roof of _Shotgun_ , so the kitchen was now lit naturally rather than by those gloomy yellow lights over each grill that had lowkey driven Sam mad over the years.

The tandem kitchens were snug enough that Dean and Cas would be able to talk to each other when working separately, ventilated enough that Castiel’s food was still meat-particle free and certified vegan, and spacious enough that Charlie could pass between the two trucks, collecting up orders from one side or the other, handing boxes or bags to the customers.

“Tell you what,” Charlie said cheerfully, hands on her hips. “People are gonna come for the kosher barbecue ribs and stay for the allergen free cranberry pie. Or vice versa. This is gonna be great. What d’ya say we open up tomorrow? I’m ready. Are you ready?”

“Oh, you _so_ should,” Mary agreed, patting Charlie on the shoulder. “I’ll be your first paying customer.”

Dean and Castiel shared a grin with Charlie. They nodded.

“Let’s do it,” Dean said.

  
♥  


After an afternoon inside the trucks spent cleaning and polishing and checking everything worked flawlessly, then an evening spent in the company of the extended Winchester-Dominguez family (most of whom showed up at Castiel’s secret request, bearing gifts of full tupperware), Dean and Castiel felt more ready for what came next than ever before.

The sun went down like it didn’t want to leave the party, seeding oranges and reds into the clouds like some kind of slow-motion flambe. The final flashes of gold came through the leaves of the trees beside the pond, casting heat over familiar faces wearing glad smiles. The warmth of loving chatter and the clink of wine glasses echoed through the roadside clearing, softer than the breeze, yet no softer than the feeling in Dean’s chest.

Nearly twenty people surrounded the picnic benches that they’d pushed together for an impromptu feast. Amidst all of their joviality, Dean caught Castiel’s eyes over and over, and saw him looking back with pride and adoration.

They’d done it. They’d really done it.

_Shotgun Sugarbun_ was guaranteed to be the best thing Dean ever tried his hand at, save one: whatever it was he’d started with Cas.

Eventually people did have to leave. They left with cheek-kisses and calls of encouragement – and, in Bobby and Rufus’ case, with a case of fancy cigars handed over and a big, manly pat. Rufus pushed Bobby’s wheelchair off into the twilit distance, bickering together as they went.

Dean watched them go, thinking to himself that he’d be happy if he and Cas could turn out like that when they got old.

Outside the truck with his boots steady in the crushed grass, Dean rolled down the security shutter on _Shotgun_ , still amused by the fact his side was painted with _Sugarbun_.

The lights from the Impala shone on the padlock as he snapped the hatch closed.

“Hmm,” Dean said, hands in his pockets, ambling up to Cas. Cas was just pocketing his own key. “This is it, huh. You and me.”

Castiel eyed him curiously. “What do you mean?”

Dean pursed his lips, shaking his head. He sniffed in a breath. “You ever think about barbecuing some of your pastries? Apple dumpling, maybe. Or some kind of bun, right? And then we sell it in a combo with an alcohol free, wheat free beer, and call it the Shotgun Sugarbun Special. Y’know, like how people shotgun beer?”

Castiel seemed bemused, but quietly appreciative. He stood at the passenger side door of the Impala, waiting for Dean to unlock it. “I’ve never thought about barbecuing dessert, no.”

“Should try it,” Dean said, getting into the car. He reached across the seats and unlocked Cas’ door, and Castiel got in and sat beside him.

Then Dean paused, staring through the purple darkness to ponder the trucks ahead. “Cas?”

“Hm?”

“Sometimes I think...” Dean let a smirk twitch up, but it fell a moment later. “My dad would hate this. Everything I became. Everything I’m doing now. I split up the family, technically. I mean, having Sam going to work for your math thing is... It’s not a problem, I know that. Because you’re family, and Charlie’s family, so it’s still the family business. But what’s out there in front of us ain’t what my daddy started. He kept trying to root us someplace, making the same standard food over and over and it never worked out. I like to move, you know? Take my home with me. I like to change, roll with the punches, not keep fighting a losing battle and go down with the hits ‘like a real man’. I guess he was just tryna be a good dad. Make things stable, make sure I didn’t fuck up by taking a chance. But the stuff we’re gonna be selling now... He’s the one that taught me to use corn syrup to cut costs. And that’s outta the picture now. Now it’s kosher. Gluten free. _Vegan_. I’m the fuckin’ _Meat Man_ , Cas. And my boyfriend won’t even sell anything that saw an egg once. That’s not even _mentioning_ what my old man would think about the fact I _have_ a boyfriend. And now, to top it all off, I’m thinking about selling booze-free booze.”

Dean ducked his head, easing out a breath. “There’s just... nothing left of my dad here.”

“Does that... make you feel bad?” Castiel asked.

“No...? No...” Dean wondered. Then he smiled. “Just somethin’ I’ve been thinkin’ about.”

Castiel started to smile. “Well, you look happy.”

“Yeah.” Dean began to beam, and turned his grin towards Castiel, and snatched up his hand. “The future’s all you and me, now, baby.”

“Urgh, don’t,” Castiel cringed. “As a favour to me, Dean, don’t ever call me ‘baby’.”

“Nawww! Was kidding, Cas, I swear. Keep your favours. Save ‘em for something worthwhile.” Dean leaned over to smack a kiss on Castiel’s cheek. “Let’s go home, huh?”

Castiel lifted Dean’s hand to kiss the back of it. “Okay.”

  
♥  


As rustic and dark and moodily awesome as it was, Dean’s house never felt properly homey for most of the past year. Like he’d said, he liked to move. He never liked to settle. It was true of him for everything, which was why he’d blown through hobbies and careers and apartments and relationships without letting anything properly stick.

But then Cas came along.

Cas liked pastel colours and enduring routines.

Suffice to say, there were fluffy pillows. There were wall hangings with sunshine patterns on them. There were pom-poms hanging from the wall-mounted antlers, and muted rainbow bunting flags strung across the living room beams. Their bedroom was painted something called ‘duck egg blue’.

A younger Dean might have said it was saccharine, with all that soft schmoopy crap getting in the way of his dark leather and raw wood.

But Dean was a different person these days. He liked home. And soft things. Lettuce. Cake. And Cas.

Dean turned on the lights then dropped his plaid shirt on the pool table barely a moment after he got in the door, then kicked his boots off. He beelined for the music player by the bookshelf in the corner of the room. Castiel tutted at him, but left the mess where it was, adding to it with his own sandals. Tidying was for less sleepy people.

Dean stood thumbing at his music player, head down, until he found the playlist he wanted.

He found Castiel already in the kitchen, washing his hands. Dean took him by the waist and hugged him, giving his neck a kiss.

Fading in from the next room came the mellowed hums of Team Free Will Reloaded, with Dean’s voice rasping dry over the words.

_And – so – it wooon’t be looong..._   
_Until I come home to you_   
_Because I know that you_   
_Are hooo-oome..._

“You hungry?” Dean asked, eyes closed, arms around Cas’ chest, swaying with him as the beat slowly rose up through their tired feet.

“A little,” Castiel said. He kissed Dean’s wrist. “Couldn’t eat anything heavy. Not after everything everyone brought us to eat.”

“Nah, me neither. Salad, maybe.”

_Never thought I’d_  
 _Write a love song_  
 _Or even write again_...  
 _Thought by now I’d_  
 _Be so-long gone but_  
 _Here I am, with you_.

“Hm. We got sweet potato? And garlic and onion and bell peppers. Green beans. How ‘bout roasted?”

“Ugh, too slow,” Castiel said. “Dry fried. Then add olive oil and swish until the onion browns. Salt and pepper. Hmmm, _pasta_! I want pasta. Cancel the sweet potato, let’s make stir-fry.”

Dean nodded, then patted Castiel’s butt. “C’mon, then, hot stuff. You get the pasta goin’, I’ll wash up and raid the fridge.”

Once his hands were clean, Dean tossed Castiel the packet of buckwheat pasta. “Thank God buckwheat isn’t actually wheat, huh?”

“Thank _God_ , indeed,” Castiel said fondly. He sang along as he found a wok and turned on the stove. “ _And sooo it wooon’t be looong... Until I come home to you..._ ”

Dean grinned and sang, “ _Because I know that you... Are hooome..._ ” He nudged up next to Cas and handed over a cold bottle of tamari sauce. Moving to the other kitchen island, he peeled four small white onions, sectioned out a few cloves of garlic purely for the purposes of contact flavour, roughly quartered up the onions, topped and tailed the green beans, then cut out the seeds from two bell peppers, one yellow, one red. All with expert speed.

_Bought a house out_  
 _By some farmland_  
 _But nothing seemed to grow_...  
 _Later turned out_  
 _My green heartland_  
 _Had already been sown_.

_And – so – it wooon’t be looong—_

The song faded out after another repeat of the chorus, and Dean bobbed to it as it went.

They made it through six songs as the pan sizzled, spitting with the juices of the onion chunks and peppers, toasting the green beans. In a pot next to the wok, the twisty brown pasta already bubbled, cooking quickly enough that Castiel barely had time to shuffle around the vegetables to brown them evenly before the timer beeped. Castiel left Dean to pour the pasta water out. They both liked their pasta on the al dente side, and it was only going to get crispy as they sautéed it.

Into the wok it all went, tossed with the vegetables, drizzled thickly in olive oil – Dean poured, Castiel shook the pan – then darkened with a swirl, then another swirl of tamari sauce.

Dean grinned, watching the steam eaten up by the extractor fan. Music played on, a distant soundtrack to the more melodious hiss and sizzle of good food becoming perfect.

Dean brought out two black bowls, and Castiel spooned a decent amount of food into both. Dean hummed appreciatively, inhaling constantly on his commute to the barstools.

He and Castiel sat together, Castiel pouring out some chilled water for them both.

They each took a forkful of pasta and veggies, blowing the heat away. They glanced at each other, then filled their mouths, Castiel squinting, Dean staring at his bowl, both of them poised for critique. And it came in the form of two smiles, Dean’s bobbing, contented nod, and a sigh of gladness from Castiel, eyes falling shut.

Oh, it was beautiful. Exquisitely savoury and salty, with a umami darkness to it, with _just_ the right pop of natural caramel on the finish. Enough of a bite that Castiel’s texture sensitivities were assuaged, and enough richness that Dean wasn’t wondering what would’ve made it better. Maybe they were just hungry enough not to care, but it was as close to perfect as a meal ought to be for a night like this.

“Big day tomorrow,” Dean said quietly, as he speared an crispy onion piece on his fork tines and watched the inner layers drop away. “No going back now, huh.”

Castiel smirked. “Would you want to?”

“Hell no,” Dean promised. He knocked his knee against Castiel’s below the countertop’s overhang. “Me, Cas? I don’t get cold feet.”

“Oh, don’t you? Tell that to my _legs_ in the middle of the night.”

Dean chuckled. “Seriously. I’m all in. _Shotgun Sugarbun_. Everything we’re gonna become. You and me included.”

“What if... it becomes a lifetime commitment?” Castiel asked, carefully.

Dean smiled at his food, then at Cas. “Like I said, Cas. All in.”

Castiel gazed back, his soft expression nothing short of darling. “I love you, Dean,” he said.

Dean gave him a kiss and hummed a note. “Damn right you do.”

Castiel laughed, rocking to headbutt Dean’s shoulder. “At this point you’ve written enough love songs about me that I won’t ever need to wonder if you feel the same.”

“Aw.” Dean held Castiel’s hand over his thigh, thumb stroking. “I’m fuckin’ head-over-heels for ya, Cas. I swear, if I wasn’t scared of pulling something or wrecking the kitchen, I’d prove it. Visually. Like, with cartwheels.”

Castiel chuckled into a new kiss, deepening the pressure with a smooch, then another slower and quieter smooch, finally followed by a soft and happy sigh. They pulled back to look at each other.

Content and bright-eyed, they leaned back to their stir-fry, and with a full-mouthed mumbly request from Dean, they swapped onions for green beans to match each of their preferences.

Most of the meals that they both loved cooking and eating would hit that happy medium between savoury and sweet. Like tonight’s stir-fry, it would be seared so the natural sugars of the ingredients came out, subtly enhanced with other seasonings or sauces. Ideally, it would be a little... hm, _smoky_.

Likewise: a little extra goodness did Dean many favours, Castiel had said on several occasions. And Dean couldn’t disagree, not after abstaining from swear words for a week and feeling inexplicably shiny inside. In contrast, the shadows of Cas’ personality may have been an acquired taste for many, yet for Dean, such a zest could only be improved by adding more. Castiel no longer blushed and panicked when he swore now, which Dean considered great progress.

Together they balanced. Sweet and salty. Subtle and spicy. Sugar and smoke. These days both of them could be either.

That was how they liked things.

Well, that was how they _loved_ things.

So that was how things would be.

**{ the end }**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for reading! Please don’t forget to leave purzelndesbaeumchen’s [art post](https://purzelndesbaeumchen.tumblr.com/post/616680003737944064/sugar-and-smoke-you-will-need-one-1) some love!
> 
> If you enjoyed this, here! Have more!  
> ♥ [**Sycamore Smile**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18774427) (18k, professor Cas and barista Dean team up to KonMari their lives together – ft. a bunny and sunshine galore).  
> ♥ [**Duck Duck Boots**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16776406) (92k, veterinarian Cas and daredevil-turned-kindergarten-teacher Dean raise ducklings together in a tiny village).  
> ♥ And [ALL my 117+ other Destiel fics](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Bfandom_ids%5D%5B%5D=27&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=almaasi). (More recently I’ve posted some [Good Omens](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Bfandom_ids%5D%5B%5D=114591&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=almaasi) and right now I’m mostly writing [Star Trek: Deep Space Nine](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Bfandom_ids%5D%5B%5D=8474&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=almaasi).)
> 
> I hope you’re all safe, my friends! Wishing you all the goodness in the world (and luckily there is an infinite supply). ♥  
> Elmie x


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